


His Majesty's Heart

by moelock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moelock/pseuds/moelock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is promoted to crown prince at the age of 13 after Mycroft abdicates the throne. Confined within the palace walls, his mind seeks thrills and adventure. John Hamish Watson is the son of an aristocratic family closely tied to the monarch. His sister, Harriet, is expected to marry Sherlock when they are adults. While he’s attempting to sneak out of the palace, Sherlock runs into John. Meeting their families’ expectations, following society’s unspoken laws, and remaining true to themselves become increasingly difficult as the years pass and they fall in love with each other. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crown Prince

“I don’t want to be king.”

It wasn’t fair.

“You’ve no choice, Sherlock.” 

It really wasn’t fair.

Sherlock spun around dramatically on his heels and stomped angrily towards his brother, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction, “But _you_ do?”

Mycroft took a step back, assessing the situation and determining just how angry Sherlock was. The boy was absolutely livid. Betrayed by his brother, the title of ‘crown prince’ thrust upon him, their father on the verge of death, and him only being 13 years of age. Mycroft huffed a sigh, not of exasperation, but of contemplation. It was his duty to protect Sherlock, but he was not ready to accept the burden of protecting him by taking on the responsibilities of king. He knew that though both of the Holmes brothers were gifted with brilliant minds, Sherlock was far more capable of putting it to use; whereas Mycroft would rather have someone else do the work. And Great Britain did not need a ruler who refused to do the legwork. “I’m not fit for the job, Sherlock.”

They stood at the entrance of the palace’s primary library, both of their figures small compared to the number of books surrounding them; infinite and beautiful, bound by leather and sprinkled with gold. Sherlock had overheard Mycroft’s conversation with their parents about his decision to not be king outside of their quarters. Upon leaving the room, Mycroft saw Sherlock standing there, quaking and eyes wide as if someone had stabbed him in the back – for what it was worth, Sherlock actually felt like he _had_ been stabbed in the back. Not wanting his brother to throw a tantrum in the middle of the hall, Mycroft dragged him here, the place he knew Sherlock felt most at peace.

The change in scenery was doing nothing to appease Sherlock’s mood.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, exactly a foot away from Mycroft. His eyes were wet with fury and fear of the family’s decision to make him crown prince. His hands were clenched into fists, trembling slightly at his sides, “And you think _I_ am?” His voice broke, “Because I’m not, Mycroft.”

“I won’t be gone. I’ll be part of your circle of close confidants. Right here, in the palace.”

“It’s not the same!” Sherlock screamed, emotions running high. Startled by the volume of his own voice, he took in a shaky breath and exhaled, calming his nerves. His next words were a quiet whisper, “It’s not the same.” He did not want Mycroft to leave. Of course, he was not exactly leaving. He would still live in the palace, live with the family, but their relationship would not be the same. As a member of the people who were supposed to act as the king’s informants, the nature of their relationship, no matter how much blood was mixed between them, would change drastically. They would no longer be equals, but reduced to King and Servant.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sounded tired.

“You know what they’ll do to me. I’ll be locked up in this place and I’ll never be able to go out freely.”

“Yes…”

“You and I both know father won’t live forever. In fact, he won’t live for very long, “ Sherlock blinked away the tears that threatened to spill, “The nurses all tell me he’ll recover, but I know they’re lying. And when he dies, I’ll be king. Not you. I’ll have to take all the responsibilities. Not you. I’ll be stuck here. Not you. I’ll have to deal with all the instability of our country. Not you. I’ll be all alone and forced to do whatever everyone else expects of me. Not. You.” Bitterness and aguish seethed from his words, “No one even took into consideration how I felt about this. Not you. Not father. Not mother. _No one._ ”

Mycroft visibly winced, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not sorry for what you’re doing to me. If you were, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place.” Sherlock knew their entire situation was unfair. He knew how frightening it was to rule and recognized that if he were in Mycroft’s situation, he would have done the same and worse, would have had no remorse for his decision. But Mycroft was feeling very guilty. Sherlock remembered nights where his brother never slept and realized that these were probably the nights Mycroft mulled over the decision and the self-reproach was what kept him awake.

Silence stretched between them for a long minute. Mycroft remained quiet. Sherlock had to come to terms with the crown on his own and no words Mycroft said would make the reality any better.

“I don’t want to be king.” Sherlock repeated, his feet shuffling nervously against the marble tiles.

“You’ll make a great king.”

Sherlock scoffed, “No, I won’t,” his eyes met Mycroft’s with a tragic sadness, “I’ve heard how the servants and people talk about me. They all hate me. What kind of a person does a king become if his subjects despise him?”

Mycroft filled the gap between them and kneeled down, gripping Sherlock’s shoulders firmly, “What should it matter to you what they think? They don’t know you Sherlock, nor do they own you. Caring will get you nowhere, not in our family. It’s this,” he tapped Sherlock’s forehead with a finger, “that will make you great.”

“What about this?” Sherlock poked Mycroft’s left breast.

Mycroft grimaced. How to clarify the complications of their family to a child? Sherlock was smart, but there were some things that personal experience explained worlds better than words. “This,” he took the small hand over his chest and placed it over where Sherlock’s heart was, “will always be on your side. So don’t worry about what others say about you. Remember what I told you? I will be a part of your confidants and no matter what anyone should say about you, I will remain true to my younger brother, to our nation’s King.”

Sherlock smiled a little then, forgiveness tugging at the corners of his lips, “Promise me.”

“I promise,” Mycroft paused for a moment, then added, “Your Majesty.” He grinned.

Sherlock pulled away his hand and kicked Mycroft, toppling him over, “That isn’t funny!” But despite himself, he broke into a fit of giggles.

After a moment of letting Sherlock indulge in his laughter, Mycroft got back on his feet and dusted off his trousers, “Shall we tell Mother of our reconciliation?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No. I want her to think we’re still arguing.”

Mycroft frowned, perplexed, “Why?”

“It’s naturally what she deserves after saying yes to your request without consulting me.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Sherlock,” he reprimanded.

“What?” Sherlock spat in response. The woman shouldn’t be allowed the relief of knowing that her sons’ relationship with each other was as fine as ever. At least for a couple of days, so she knew how much this affected Sherlock’s life and his plans. Mummy always did get so riled up every time Sherlock and Mycroft got into a quarrel.

Mycroft sighed, “Nothing.” He was in no position to convince Sherlock otherwise. If this juvenile form of revenge was enough to keep his brother content, then it was a small sacrifice to make, even if it was on Mother’s behalf.

 

 

For two entire weeks, Sherlock and Mycroft made an agreement that they would not speak to each other in front of their mother, Queen Violet. Then, finally, when she was on the verge of tears after seeing her children in such gloomy prospects for such an extended period, Sherlock began (what she thought was) their first conversation in 14 days. 

Then, Sherlock was given another reason to be upset.

“Do you remember the Watsons, Sherlock?” Mummy Holmes asked.

Sherlock gave a curt nod, taking a sip of his afternoon tea. Mycroft sat beside him and their mother sat directly across from them. Their father was resting and unable to join.

“And their daughter?”

Oh, how could he forget her? Harriet Watson. Hardly to be called a ‘daughter,’ considering how un-ladylike she was. Sherlock would have to admit she was what people called ‘pretty,’ but she was a disaster personality-wise. No manners at the table, stripping in front of Sherlock (much to his horror) because she claimed her dress was ‘not suitable for the time of day’, the list went on and on. Needless to say, Sherlock didn’t want to have anything to do with her. He gave another nod and then quietly to his brother, “Unfortunately.”

Mycroft hummed, remembering the eldest child just as well as Sherlock did. She really was something.

“We’ll have the pleasure of having them here tomorrow. They’ll be staying a week.”

“Why?” Sherlock nearly shouted.

“The Watsons have always been close to our family. I know you don’t like company, but really, Sherlock. You’ll have to get married some day. Best start getting to know your potential wife sooner than later.”

Married? To _Harriet Watson_? Sherlock choked on a biscuit. He turned red – whether it was from the lack of oxygen or from outrage, his mother couldn’t tell. Mycroft tossed him a napkin to wipe his face and give him a moment to think.

“Sherlock is still quite young, Mother.”

“Hush, Mycroft.”

“Speaking of Mycroft, why should I have to think about marriage when he’s 20 and not seeing anybody?” Sherlock asked, indignant. Everyone in this house was out to get him, he was sure. “Just because he decided to give up all of the perks of being king, certainly doesn’t mean he must give up the perks of being married.” He shot his brother an impish grin.

Mycroft spluttered and his eyes darted from Sherlock to their mother in panic. The topic of marriage for him hadn’t surfaced in a number of years and Mycroft liked it that way. When he was a child, he went out into town with one of the servants because he wanted to see what the markets were like. It was a magnificent place, bustling with business and joy, reflecting their nation’s prosperity. He strayed away from the servant to visit a bakery. There, he met the baker’s family, but more importantly, he met the baker’s daughter – Anthea. And he never forgot her. Every girl Mother had tried to get him with could never compete with Anthea’s beauty, her unmatched wit, and strength (both physical and emotional). His fondness for her went unspoken and unrequited. He had never seen her again since.

To Mycroft’s relief, Mother was focused on Sherlock, “He met women when he was younger, but the girls never really liked him. Sorry dear,” she glanced at Mycroft then continued to her younger son, “but I have a feeling the girls will like you.”

“For my looks, perhaps.”

“Nonsense. Women love a smart man.”

Sherlock was sceptical of his mother’s knowledge about what most women wanted. She was an exceptional woman, above most aesthetically and mentally, and the only reason why she could put up with her husband was because she was his equal in intelligence. “Darling, you can’t just push this off. When you become king, you must have a queen.”

“Even so, I will not marry Harriet Watson. I would have thought you making me king without my consent would have been enough. You’ve done so much for me already, Mother. The least you could allow me to do is choose my wife _myself_.”  

“Just meet her. You haven’t seen her or her family in three years. I’m sure she’s matured during that time.” She gave a hopeful smile. “She’ll be the first and last. If you try hard to at least become friends with her and it doesn’t work after that, then you may pick your own bride.”

Sherlock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes with a gulp of tea. He shrugged, seemingly nonchalant now, “Fine.” He swore to himself he would make Harriet Watson _hate_ him. It didn’t seem very difficult for others.

“Excellent. They’ll be here soon, so get ready Sherlock.”

“What?”

“The Watsons will be here within an hour.”

“But you said –“

“A little white lie, honey. Mycroft, take Sherlock and make sure he’s properly dressed.”

Mycroft rose from his seat and took Sherlock by the arm, tugging him towards the door. Once outside, Sherlock shook his arm loose, “You can’t possibly expect me to meet that barbarian of a girl, can you? You and I both know what her life will amount to; she’ll become a drunk, more of a burden to her family than an asset. But Mummy wants me to play nice. I won’t. I won’t do it.”

Mycroft sighed, “Sherlock, behave, would you? The Watsons have been a family friend for generations. And this isn’t the first time you’ll meet Ms Watson. She’s charming, if you think about it.”

“Charming?” Sherlock repeated, “Really, Mycroft?”

Mycroft frowned, “Straining our ties with your petty forms of rebellion will not do anyone any good, in the long run.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one up to marry a monster, all because you’re naturally gifted at driving women away. And now that you’re not even going to be king, you can go after that baker’s girl.”

Mycroft nearly pulled a muscle in his neck as he twisted his head around at the mention of his childhood love, “Who told you about that?”

Sherlock began walking away, “Nobody. I followed you that day. Please, you thought you would be the only one going out of the palace? It’s a chance that comes rarely and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.”

Mycroft jogged a few steps to catch up to Sherlock. The two walked side-by-side to Sherlock’s room, “You haven’t told anyone?”

“No.”

“Not even Mother?”

“ _Especially_ not mother.  She would have thrown a fit. She might be an advocate for social reform and bettering of the lower classes, but if she found out that her son was in love with a girl from a trading family, she wouldn’t take it lightly and would have taken more measures to get you a wife. As hard as it is to believe, Mycroft, I’d rather not impose an arranged marriage on you.”

Mycroft had to admit he was touched. Sherlock could be so mischievous, almost to the point of being evil. But when it came to him, the boy was ultimately loyal and affectionate. Mother and Father were always so busy. They had a country to rule after all, and in growing up, Mycroft and Sherlock only had each other to rely on. He supposed it was only natural for Sherlock to become so attached, but at his age, he couldn’t possibly understand the depths of a concept such as love. It seemed Mycroft had underestimated Sherlock’s ability to comprehend. He was much more observant that Mycroft gave him credit for.

“You have my thanks.”

“There’s no need. Because you’re about to do something for me in return for keeping your secret all these years.”

Oh, God. Mycroft should have known. He braced himself for Sherlock’s request.

“Let me leave the palace for a few hours. At least until night falls.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, “That’s it?”

Sherlock nodded, “I’m going to have the girl hate me. If I don’t show up for our first meeting in years, then perhaps she will. Or at least begin to. But don’t tell anyone else of our plan. I want the escape to be believable.”

“I don’t think me being idle will give you any advantages.”

“Wrong. If you don’t call anyone to action and remain neutral, then eventually, the rest will follow and give up in finding me. Mother knows that I don’t like to be bored and she’ll realize that this was all my doing and no one else’s. Her worry will eventually turn into anger and that is my goal.”

Mycroft gave a short nod, “All right. Then we’ll proceed with her plan of getting you dressed and then?”

“I’ll make a run for it. I’ll leave through the garden, so if you could have it cleared out, that would be marvellous.”

“Understood. Be safe, Sherlock. Don’t go anywhere you’re not familiar with.”

“I haven’t been outside of these walls since that time you went to the market. Basically everywhere is unfamiliar,” Sherlock flashed a grin, “Exciting.”

Mycroft groaned, “Of course.”

They had reached Sherlock’s room. Mycroft patted Sherlock’s back, “Go on in. I’ll send Mrs Hudson over and tell the servants to report to the main hall to greet the Watsons. No one will be in the garden for at least an hour. That should be enough time.”

Sherlock opened his bedroom door and slipped through, “See you, Mycroft.”

 

 

In 10 minutes, Mrs Hudson arrived at Sherlock’s room. She entered with a quick knock and a high-pitched _Woo-hoo_. By then, he already had everything he needed to survive outside for a day packed neatly into a bag; money, snacks, and a coat in case the weather decided to get cold.

“Sherlock, dear! Mycroft told me all about your meeting with Ms Watson. I have the perfect outfit for you.” She dragged a massive cart in with her.

Mrs Hudson may have been the head maid, but she was more like an aunt to Sherlock and Mycroft and a sister to the Queen. They had a very close relationship. 

Mrs Hudson opened the cart and revealed an impressive collection of clothes, “What are you in the mood for?” She asked cheerily, pulling out wardrobe after wardrobe and laying them on Sherlock’s bed.

“Anything you want, Mrs Hudson. What do you think Ms Watson would find attractive?” Sherlock replied. Mrs Hudson leapt up with thrill and dived into work, mixing and matching pieces. Her attention was completely focused on the clothing and she didn’t even notice Sherlock creeping away from her, towards the door.

“You’re in such good spirits today, Sherlock. I know it must be difficult for you, what with being forced to take the throne after your father, and then this marriage deal. It really is terrible, but oh, it’s not my place to tell your parents how to raise their children, is it?” When she turned to show Sherlock her new masterpiece, she yelped at seeing that he had disappeared. “Oh, no.”

Sherlock heard her shout his name as he dashed down the hallway. He pumped his arms so that he could run faster and faster and faster. He wanted to get away, out of this hellhole. His room was close to one of the palace exits that opened to a maze and led directly to the garden. The maze would have been difficult for any ordinary person, but Sherlock had figured it out without a single mistake the first time he set foot into it. He was only six years old. He knew the way like the back of his hand.

Sherlock burst through the glass doors and took in a breath of fresh air. He slithered through the maze with ease and hesitated only when he ran into an unfamiliar boy near the middle. He had never seen the child before and luckily, the boy hadn’t noticed him. Sherlock halted to screeching stop and took a few steps back, hiding behind a hedge.

Ash blond hair, cropped short, almost military. Skin tan so his family had the money to travel abroad to sunnier places. Stature shorter than Sherlock’s but they were the same age. Dressed in a crisp white suit jacket and shorts. Yes, he was definitely wealthy. Not a son of one of the servants, then. But what was he doing in the palace gardens?

Sherlock emerged from his hiding place and called out to the boy, “What are you doing here?”

The boy jumped and whipped around. Bright blue eyes, like the ocean. “Um, I think I’m lost.”

“Yes, well, this is a maze. That’s not entirely unexpected.”

The boy took a few steps closer to Sherlock, “I’m John.” He extended a hand, which Sherlock took and shook.

When Sherlock didn’t introduce himself, John continued the conversation, “You think you can help me get out of here?”

Sherlock nodded and they began walking through the maze together.

“You really know your way around. Do you live here?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Something like that.”

John quirked an eyebrow, “Running away?”

Sherlock gave a querying look. “Your backpack,” John explained.

When Sherlock didn’t say anything, John guessed again, “A thief, then?”

“No!” Sherlock bellowed, shocked at the accusation.

“No need to get defensive. It is a bit suspicious though. You haven’t even told me your name, though I told you mine. You’re walking through a maze. With a backpack. Can’t really blame me for thinking you have something valuable in there.”

Sherlock slung his bag off his shoulder and presented it to John, shoving it into his chest. John opened the bag and looked through its contents, “No gold then. But you have money and food. And a nice coat.”

“That’s my money, my food, and my coat.”

John remained unconvinced, but he was more curious than judgemental, “Now it is. Since you’ve stolen it.”

“I didn’t steal it!" Sherlock snatched the bag back, holding it possessively, "Do I look like a thief to you?”

“You just came out from the royal palace. Surely you could have found a few clothes to fit you.”

“I’m not a thief.”

“Then tell me your name.”

Ah, so that’s how it was.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip. Damn it! He was supposed to be far away from the palace grounds, but then he ran into this – this _John._ “I can’t,” Sherlock’s head fell as he kicked the grass beneath his feet.

“What?” John stopped walking. Sherlock did, too.

His cover couldn’t be blown. He hadn’t gotten out yet. “I can’t,” his head lifted now and his pale, piercing grey eyes found John’s. Their intensity was startling and John stared back, eyes narrowed. “You _can’t_?”

Sherlock shook his head, desperate and determined to get out.

After a long moment came a reply, “All right.”

Sherlock was surprised and looked at John, wide-eyed. He seemed so persistent, why give up so suddenly?

“We all have things we don’t want to talk about and we all have things we need to do. Thief or not, it’s not my place to question you. So, it’s fine. It’s all fine.” John resumed his walking. “I think we’re almost at the end.”

 _Fascinating_ , Sherlock thought. He couldn’t help but beam. _Fantastic!_ He couldn’t describe what was so amazing about this boy, but his very aura, the mood he emanated, the kindness veiled by a certain gruff quality, was absolutely brilliant. He looked ordinary, even his name was ordinary, but at the same time, he was everything but ordinary.

Just as they reached the edge of the maze, came an urgent voice, “Prince Sherlock, sir! Where are you?”

Sherlock’s hand darted out and grabbed John by his shirt collar, pulling him back. Clamping his hand over John’s mouth, they retreated into a bush. “Shh,” he commanded.

Greg Lestrade, Head of Security, passed by them, still calling Sherlock’s name. Sherlock’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He wouldn’t get caught, not now. Stupid Mycroft, he specifically told him to get everyone out of the garden, and here Lestrade was, strolling around, looking for him. Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock almost didn’t notice John squirming to get loose. John poked at Sherlock’s hand, telling him to remove it. An odd sensation – trust, maybe? – overwhelmed Sherlock and he complied, releasing John.

“I’ll distract him. You get out of here while I do.”

Before Sherlock could even give an answer, John stood and rushed out of the maze, catching up to Lestrade, calling out, “Excuse me, sir!” Sherlock crawled closer to the end so he could hear their conversation.

“Mr Watson! What are you doing here?”

“Harry and I thought we would explore the gardens, but I seem to have gotten separated from her. Could you take me back to my family?”

Lestrade seemed to be at a loss. He was supposed to be finding Sherlock, but the only son of the Watson family was before him, asking him for help. After a moment of self-debating, he seemed to think dealing with the immediate problem was more prudent, “Of course. Please follow me.”

They walked away and John glanced back to see Sherlock peeking out of the maze. John gave a small smile and waved goodbye. Sherlock gaped at him, but managed a weak clench of fingers as a thank you.

John Watson. Harriet Watson’s brother. The Watsons had a son? Sherlock tried to shuffle through his memories, wondering if they had met the last time the Watsons had visited. No, Sherlock surely would have remembered a character like that. Suddenly, all desire of leaving the palace left him. He got up and retraced his steps through the maze, bolting for his room. He had a family to see. 


	2. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Harriet discover that they have more in common than they thought.

“Have you found him?” Mrs Hudson was an anxious wreck, pacing back and forth, wringing her hands together.

Lestrade shook his head, “No, not yet. I ran into young Mr Watson and took him back to his family, but still no sign of the prince.” He slumped into a wheeled chair and rolled back, bumping into a wall. He didn’t care. All he could think about was Prince Sherlock and how something could have happened to him and oh, sweet mother of all that was holy. He hung his head in his hands and sighed, “God, what will the Queen say when she finds out?” The prince was such high maintenance sometimes.

Molly walked slowly across the room and hesitantly set a hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. He looked up to see her wearing a small smile of reassurance. He was grateful for her. Sometimes, she was the only thing keeping his sanity together whenever his job took a toll on him. “It’s all right, we’ll find him,” she said.

The three of them were convened in Sherlock’s room, hoping that maybe he would show up through those doors and they could all get on with their lives.

“Strange though, isn’t it? Prince Mycroft doesn’t seem to be worried at all,” Molly commented after a moment of silence.

Suddenly, the door swung open and Sherlock stumbled through. His hair was a messy clump of auburn on his head, decorated with broken leaves and flower petals. His clothes were smudged in dirt and his knees were covered in scrapes. “I need to be dressed, quickly!”

Lestrade sprang up from the chair and saluted his young grace. Mrs Hudson looked like she was about to faint. Molly stared, wide-eyed, with a hand to her mouth. She was the first the speak, “What happened?"

“Never mind that! Hurry!” Sherlock roared.

Mrs Hudson regained her composure, “Dressed in that state? You need a bath first.” Even so, she scurried to her collection of clothing and re-assembled the masterpiece she had worked so hard on earlier. Lestrade rushed forward and scooted Sherlock towards his own personal bathroom so he could get cleaned up, “Shall I send over the maids?”

“No, I can manage on my own. Molly!” Sherlock called behind his shoulder just before Lestrade shut the door. “I’ll need my cuts tended to as soon as I’m out.”

“I’ll be ready when you’re done,” she replied, presenting a first-aid kit she already had prepared before Sherlock’s arrival for emergencies. One could never be too careful about anything, especially when considering this was Sherlock, the king of mischief and mishaps.

Glancing between them to make sure the conversation was over, Lestrade nodded and closed the door. While Sherlock turned on the water and soaked in the tub, the three outside discussed what could have occurred during the prince’s absence.

“He looks in terrible shape, the poor boy,” Mrs Hudson said with sympathy, shutting her portable wardrobe, a job well done, and taking a seat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed.

Lestrade ran a hand down his face, ”This is all my fault. If only my men and I had a closer look on him.”

“That’s not true. You can’t be expected to watch him like a hawk all the time.”

“It’s my job, Molly. That’s like saying your family’s not expected to be in the hospital rooms when people are dying.”

“I suppose,” Molly said weakly. She was a daughter in a long line of family members who served the crown as their personal doctors. Barely 20, she was still studying, but allowed to practice minor responsibilities.

Lestrade gave her an apologetic look. He knew his frustration was misdirected and this whole fiasco wasn’t specifically any one person’s fault. Still, he felt like he had to take some of the blame. “So? What do you think happened to him?”

“He probably got lost in the garden and fell,” Molly suggested.

“Sherlock? Lost in the garden? He knows the layout of the place better than the person who built it!” Mrs Hudson chuckled fondly.

“He’s covered in dirt and leaves. He had to be in the garden,” Molly buffeted.

“But he wasn’t. I was there and he wasn’t anywhere to be found,” Lestrade said with a shrug, “But I could have missed him. I didn’t have a chance to look everywhere because I had to escort Mr Watson back to the palace.”

Molly leaned against the wall and set the first-aid kit on Sherlock’s desk, “Well, it doesn’t really matter now. At least he’s back and our worries are over.”

The truth of Sherlock’s disappearance wasn’t all that spectacular. Like Molly said, he fell. And just as Mrs Hudson had known, Sherlock didn’t get lost. But rather, he tripped and tumbled back to the palace, collecting all of the dirt, leaves, and flowers in his way. He was so excited to return and meet John Watson properly, he literally thought of nothing and no one else. He didn’t even notice the extent of his injuries or how soiled he was until he dipped into the bath water and the stinging cuts on his knees brought tears to his eyes and the water turned muddy. Despite how sore he felt, he fiercely scrubbed away at his body and tugged at his tangled hair. Standing up, he turned towards the mirror and did a 360. With a short nod, Sherlock determined he was now clean and dried himself off, sliding across the slippery tiles for the door. He swung it open and Mrs Hudson hastened next to him, covering his naked body with a robe.

“No matter how in a hurry you are, Sherlock dear, you really should put something on before coming out. There are two ladies in here!” Mrs Hudson admonished, giving his covered bottom a playful tap, “Come on, let’s get your cuts wrapped up so we can get you dressed."

The moment Sherlock emerged from his bath, Molly had turned and faced the wall, red with embarrassment. Sherlock was a child and certainly had nothing worth seeing and though she was on her way to becoming a doctor, the male anatomy, no matter how it was presented, was still a little awkward. She fidgeted with the kit for a moment then spun back around and walked to the bed. She got on one knee and observed the numerous nicks on Sherlock’s legs. Taking in a deep breath, she immediately assumed a professional countenance, expression stoic and no longer flushed. If there was one thing Molly was absolutely set on, it was becoming a good doctor and to be a good doctor, she needed concentration in the most chaotic situations. If she couldn’t handle this much, then she was sure to be incapable of handling anything else.

Molly doused a cotton ball and hovered it over Sherlock’s knee before continuing, “Your injuries aren’t too bad. They’ll heal fine with a bit of time, but this will hurt a little.” When Sherlock nodded in understanding, Molly went ahead and dabbed at the scrapes. Sherlock winced but didn’t make any sudden movements. After disinfecting the cuts, Molly rubbed some ointment on – “It’ll help with the healing process” – and covered them with Band-Aids. 

“All right. Will you show me your arms?” Sherlock extended both limbs and Molly observed them carefully. The skin was intact and completely spotless. The jacket Sherlock was wearing protected him. Next was the face. There was a single gash just below Sherlock’s left eye, but other than that, he was fine. Molly disinfected the cut then added ointment, but held off on the bandaging. 

"Are you feeling any sort of pain anywhere else?" 

"No, I'm fine." 

"That should do it then,” Molly said with a smile. She rose to her feet and resumed her spot next to Sherlock’s desk, where Lestrade joined her.

“Good job, Molly,” he praised.

She beamed at him, “Thank you.”

“I’m going to go to Prince Mycroft and tell him we found Sherlock. He’s probably worrying.”

Molly nodded.

As Lestrade was about to leave, he did a little stutter-step and poked his head back through the door again, whispering to her, “And about tonight. Are we still on?” he cleared his throat, “For our date, I mean.”

Molly blushed for an entirely different reason than she had before. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled shyly, “Yes, yes, of course. 8 o’ clock.”

“Yeah, 8 o’ clock,” Lestrade stared at her for a second too long, then blinked uncomfortably and flashed a goofy grin before going on his way. He almost skipped down the halls.

Molly stifled her giggles and eagerly thought about what their night together would be like. Lestrade had asked her out a week before. He brought her coffee to her office in the morning, like he did every morning for the four years they had known each other. Both of them were brought to live in the palace because their parents had worked for the royal family. Molly was 16 and Lestrade was 18. Molly always thought Lestrade was handsome, skin tan, dark hair, always serious yet gentle. She never thought Lestrade would remotely be interested in her, plain old Molly Hooper. She remembered when he brought her coffee the second day after their first meeting and how happy it made her. He never missed a day since. 

How Lestrade got on the subject really was very sweet. He took a seat in front of her and played with the rim of his paper cup. They talked a bit about the weather then about work. Molly talked about patients and Lestrade talked about the crooks and cranies of security. When they got all the formalities aside, they dove into personal matters. Molly always felt comfortable talking to Lestrade and he always felt comfortable talking to her. 

"It's been four years since we first met," Lestrade began. 

"Yes, it's been quite a long time." 

Lestrade took a sip of his coffee to calm his nerves, "You're a really nice girl, Molly. And not just physically. Although you look nice that way too. No, that's not all I'm looking at. Oh, Jesus Christ." He suddenly stood up, "Sorry. I'm going to leave now." 

Molly rose too, nearly toppling her chair over in her haste. She reached out and her fingers brushed Lestrade's wrist, too afraid to grab, but more afraid of him turning around to not do anything. "No, finish what you were going to say. Please." 

Lestrade gaped then collected himself, "What I mean is. Will you have dinner with me? Just you and me. No one else." 

"Like a date?" 

"A date. Yes, exactly a date." 

"I'd love to." 

It really had taken her by surprise. Lost in her thoughts, Molly hadn't noticed how much time had passed. 

“You look lovely!” Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together and took a step back to marvel at her work.

Sherlock swung his legs forward and hopped off his bed, standing tall and proud. He looked very sharp, indeed. He was dressed in a clean black three-piece suit that acted as a perfect contrast to his milky skin. Around his neck was a cream-coloured bowtie and Mrs Hudson presented him with ivory shoes to match. “What do you think, Molly?” she asked.

“Amazing, Mrs Hudson. I’m positive the Watsons will find Prince Sherlock to be very smart company.”

“Now what to do with your hair?” Mrs Hudson leaned back on her heels in thought.

“No need, I’m fine like this.” Sherlock made for the door, but Mrs Hudson stood in his way.

“But Sherlock…”

“I happen to like it the way it is. Now, if you could please get out of my way, Mrs Hudson.”

“All right, all right,” she moved to the side and gestured towards the door.

“Thank you,” Sherlock muttered before sprinting out and down the hallway.

“I thought he wasn’t excited to see Ms Watson. I remember the prince didn’t exactly enjoy her company three years ago,” Molly commented, shutting the door behind Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson gave a knowing smile, “Maybe he’s had a change of heart.”

Sherlock ran down the halls, not really having a destination. He didn’t know where the Watsons would be – where John would be – but he had an idea. He would try the main hall first. If they weren’t there, then he’d try the dining hall. And if they weren’t there, then he’d try every single room until he found the right one.

But luckily for him, Sherlock didn’t have to run much farther. Just as he was turning a corner, he collided with Mycroft. Sherlock staggered back, but his brother stood firm. “Ah, Sherlock. Lestrade had told me you returned.”

Regaining his senses, everything came back to him. “Lestrade! Lestrade wasn’t even supposed to be in the garden!” Sherlock shouted, irate at his brother’s slip-up, even though he got something better than the markets (he got John!) out of it.

“I had told the servants to report to the main hall. I had no idea Mrs Hudson would get to the Head of Security before I did,” Mycroft said with a casual roll of his shoulders. “But I thought you could easily bypass him. Why back so soon?”

“I ran into complications.”

“Other than Lestrade?”

Sherlock dismissed his brother’s questions with a wave of his hand. He was still upset, but there were more important matters to attend to. “The Watsons have a son?”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, “Yes. Why?”

“Did he ever visit here before?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Why not?”

“You’d have to ask his parents that question to get the details but I assume it’s because young Mr Watson is very concerned about his education, even at his young age. Coming and staying here would mean missing school, something he’s not keen on doing.”

“But he’s wealthy. People like him – people like us – have personal tutors because of our circumstances.”

Mycroft thought for a moment, “If I remember correctly, he prefers to mingle with the commoners. There are certain privileges given to him that he rejects.”

“If he’s so worried about school, why is he here now?”

“His sister is meeting her future husband. This isn’t the first time and he knows it, but now, our parents and their parents are becoming more serious about the subject. It’s only natural he doesn’t want to miss out on such a monumental occasion. The Watson siblings, I hear, may not seem very close on the outside, but behind the curtains, they’re very fond of one another.”

With every new thing Sherlock found out about John, his smile grew wider and wider, stretching his cheeks past their limit.

Mycroft watched, a little afraid of why his little brother was wearing such an uncharacteristic look. “Anything else?”

“I’ll let you know when I think of more,” Sherlock wiped his face clean of his excitement and resumed his usual composed expression.

“Then let’s go,” Mycroft started walking and Sherlock followed.

“Where are we going?”

“The dining hall. That’s where the Watsons are. Food is the best company in times like these,” Mycroft gave Sherlock a wink.

“I’m assuming there will be cake,” Sherlock winked back.

“Oh, you bet.”

Sherlock braced himself as they approached the door to the dining hall, suddenly self-conscious. He began pulling at his hair and patting down his clothes, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the sparkling-clean marble walls. Mycroft glanced down and slapped Sherlock’s restless hands away, “Stop that.”

Sherlock huffed and forced his arms to his sides as Mycroft opened the door.

Mummy Holmes was in an entirely new dress. Sherlock had never seen it before, so she most likely purchased it for this special occasion. She looked marvellous. Father was (surprisingly) sitting beside her, holding her hand lovingly, looking tired and much older than he actually was, but better than usual. He smiled at his boys when they walked in. It took everything Sherlock had not to leap into his father’s arms. It had been so long since the king was up and out of his room because of his sickness and seeing him was a relief.

The Watsons sat across from them. Mr Watson, then Mrs Watson, Harriet Watson (now Sherlock had to suppress the urge to scowl) and finally, John Watson. Seeing him brought a smile to Sherlock’s face, which he didn’t bother hiding. It made him seem amiable and made it look like he was happy to see _all_ of them.

“Our sons, Sherlock and Mycroft,” the king announced.

The Watsons rose to greet them and the Holmes brothers bowed in respect. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught John staring at him, his eyes clearly saying, “Sherlock? Sherlock the _prince_? Oh, God.” Sherlock’s smile twisted into a smirk. Then they all took their seats at the table, where tea and slices of cake were laid out before them.

“You’ve grown quite a lot since we last saw you, Sherlock,” Mrs Watson began, “a perfect gentleman you are.”

Sherlock lowered his head and smiled, “Thank you. Mrs Hudson does an excellent job in dressing me. And you are looking very beautiful yourself, Mrs Watson. The stars in the sky couldn’t outshine you.”

Mrs Watson giggled softly, raising a hand to her lips. “My, you certainly have a way with words. You should consider yourself lucky, Harriet.”

Harriet Watson lifted her head and glared at Sherlock with scalding contempt, before quickly looking away and wearing her fake little mask of friendliness. “Certainly, Mother.”

No one else noticed the look, but oh, Sherlock didn’t miss it for a second. The pompousness of it, of all this stupidity he was forced to endure, sent his mind spinning, but he wouldn’t have it. He wouldn’t lose to Harriet Watson. Two could play at her game of deceit. Just as Sherlock opened his mouth again to speak, he saw something he never expected. He saw John Watson roughly punching his sister in the arm. She looked at him, shocked and presumably kicked him under the table, judging by how his face twisted with pain. Had that bold attack been in defence of Sherlock? Sherlock closed his mouth and whatever ambiguous compliments he was about to say, he swallowed.

“Well then, what do you say about leaving the two to talk for a little while we take a stroll in the garden?” the queen suggested.

Mr Watson clasped his hands together, “Excellent idea, Your Highness.”

The king and queen rose and the Watsons followed. John was a little hesitant, looking from Sherlock then to his parents, not knowing what he should do. He wanted to stay, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to. Finally, he pushed himself off of the chair and reluctantly followed the adults out. Mycroft, too, didn’t seem to want to leave. He was only half-done with his cake, but stood up with a sigh and left.

Now it was only Sherlock and Harriet, free to discuss their mutual hatred for each other without worrying about anyone else.

“You’ll have to excuse my bluntness, Prince Sherlock, but I hate you,” Harriet announced haughtily.

“Wonderful. I despise you,” Sherlock countered, “and drop the formalities. You’re not fooling me by playing nice.”

“Just how I like it. I don’t want to marry you. I’ll never marry you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t flatter yourself. I never wanted for one second to enter matrimony with you, Ms Harriet Watson.”

“Don’t call me Harriet,” she spat.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, “Apologies,” though he wasn’t sorry at all, “I thought that was your name.”

“It is. And I hate it just as much as I hate you. Call me Harry.”

Sherlock quirked a brow, “Harry? An odd choice.”

“It’s what I prefer.”

Sherlock hummed, “Fine.”

“So neither of us wants to marry the other. What will we do?”

“Do you have another reason you don’t want to marry me?”

Harry suddenly became quiet and seemed to retreat into her own mind. _Very curious_ , Sherlock thought and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “There is, isn’t there?” He surveyed her with narrowed eyes, “Someone else you’re interested in?”

Harry snapped back into reality and shot Sherlock a savage look, “How did you know that?”

“A simple observation. Who is it?”

“None of your business,” her defences were up again.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“What about you?” she tried to turn the tables, “Do you like someone else?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Don’t make this about me. I asked you first.”

Harry bit her lower lip, thinking. If she really thought about it, her and Sherlock were actually on the same side. They could use their hatred for each other as a weapon. “You promise not to tell?“

“I give you my word.”

“How can I trust you?”

“I can’t make you trust me. It’s your own decision.”

A moment of silence. Then, “Clara.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, “A girl?”

Harry slammed her fist against the table, rising out of her seat, “Is that a problem?”

“No, no, not at all. It was just unexpected,” Sherlock said coolly. 

Harry relaxed and sat down again, lifting her legs up and drawing them in to her chest. “Sorry. It’s just… it’s just not normal, is it? A girl liking a girl.” Her blond curls fell over her face and covered her eyes.

“Normal,” Sherlock groaned, “is overrated. It’s boring. You don’t have to strive to be normal.”

Harry shrugged, but felt a little better about her confession. “Now will you tell me if you like anyone?”

Sherlock froze. Should he tell her? There wasn’t really anything to hide, was there? He took in a deep breath. “John,” he finally said.

Harry lifted her head and watched him, wondering if she heard correctly.

“John,” Sherlock repeated.

“You like my brother?” Harry screeched, then slapped her hands over her mouth, afraid that someone might have heard her outburst.

“Not like. Just _interested_ ,” Sherlock corrected, avoiding eye contact.

“Not romantically?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“So just friendship?”

Sherlock couldn’t readily confirm that. He didn’t know what it was like to have friends or what it felt like to want one. There were times when he felt loneliness; was loneliness equivalent to wanting a friend? If so, then no, he didn’t want friendship with John. Seeing John didn’t make him feel lonely. It made him feel a warm glow that bubbled up from inside him and he wanted nothing more than to be in his company.

“I don’t know,” he finally said.

“Have you even talked to my brother?” Harry asked.

“Yes. I ran into him at the garden earlier today.”

“What were you doing in the garden?”

“Running away from you,” Sherlock admitted.

To his surprise, Harry laughed loudly, “I like your style, kid!”

 _Kid_ , she had called him. She was only two years older than him! Still, Sherlock was amused by her reaction and a smile crept onto his face.

“Did he know you were the prince?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I didn’t want my cover blown, so I couldn’t tell him my name.”

“You should’ve just made something up!”

“Maybe we’re more alike than we would like to believe.”

Harry nodded, a charming (Mycroft had described her like that hours before and Sherlock began thinking maybe it was true) grin brightening her features, “We should form a pact."

“Agreed.”

“To not get married.”

“Obviously.”

“You help me get with Clara and I’ll help you with… whatever it is you want to have, with John.”

“Good.”

They eyed each other then simultaneously stuck out their hands.

As they shook, Sherlock furthered their plans, “And we’ll pretend to hate each other on the outside.”

“So we don’t hate each other in reality anymore?”

“I can learn to tolerate you,” Sherlock replied, smiling slyly.

Harry laughed again, “Same here.”

“There is one problem. I don’t know who Clara is. Explain to me, how exactly, I’m going to help you ‘get with’ her?”

“There’s going to be a ball held next week at our home, celebrating my father’s new branch of business. Clara is the only child of my family’s head maid and our driver. She’s been my friend since we were born. The royal family is, of course, invited. Meaning you’ll be there.”

“Of course!” Sherlock interrupted, “and since we’ll be arguing and our parents won’t know it’s all a part of our plan, they’ll make sure that both of us are present. They’ll make us dance. We’ll dance once, and then –“

“—we’ll have a row. Realizing that we’re unstable together, our parents will allow us to spend the rest of the night however we want to give us time to cool down and –“

“I’ll take you to Clara, then you’ll –“

“—take you to John.”

Both of them were out of breath and their faces were inches away from each other, seeming to have gotten closer and closer in their excitement. They were grinning wildly, the adrenaline of plotting tipping them over as they fell back into their chairs and doubled up, laughing.

“Brilliant!” Sherlock lauded.

After a few minutes of unrestrained guffawing, they collected themselves and sat up again. “We were supposed to stay a week at the palace, but my father just got the good news this morning and he’s excited to plan the ball as soon as possible. He thought it would be rude to simply not show up, so we came anyways, but we’ll be back to our manor in the morning.”

Sherlock’s shoulders hunched a little in disappointment. He thought he would have more time to have a proper chat with John, “I see. Then shall we get to our parents and let them know how much we absolutely loathe each other before we waste more time?”

Harry shot up from her seat and ran for the door, “Last one there is a rotten egg, prince!”

Sherlock watched in horror as Harry rushed past him. He jumped out of his chair and followed quickly on her heels.  

They ran to the garden at full speed, pushing each other and having quite a bit of fun, but to an outsider, it looked like a pathetic battle of brawn between two children. Their plan worked brilliantly and the adults watched and tried to pry their hands off from each other as soon as they arrived at the garden, limbs tangled and tensions high.

Mycroft was ordered to take Sherlock to his room and John was told to take Harry to one of the many guest bedrooms. Their parents were absolutely furious and it was _perfect_.

“What’s gotten into you, Sherlock? I know you don’t like the girl, but I never thought you would be one to get physical,” Mycroft admonished as they walked back to Sherlock’s room for the second time that day.

“Your senses are growing dull, Mycroft. We were obviously faking it,” Sherlock rubbed at his face and arms. Even though it was planned, Harry was strong and she had thrown some good punches at him.

Mycroft stopped and turned, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder to hold him in place, “Explain.”

“Can’t. Sorry. You’ll just have to figure it out.” He shook his body free, circled around Mycroft, and bolted for his room. Mycroft tried to catch up, but the cake seemed to be weighing him down and he eventually gave up on chasing him.

Once inside his room, Sherlock locked the door shut and waited a few hours before going out again.

 

 

 

That night, a note was slipped under Sherlock’s bedroom door, followed by a single knock.

Sherlock rolled off of his bed, not at all tired, and picked up the piece of paper.

_John just left to go to the garden. Said he remembered he forgot something there. Thought I ought to let you know! – Harry_

Oh, bless little Ms Watson. Sherlock was almost sorry for all of the terrible things he thought and said about her. He tucked the note in the back pocket of his pyjama bottoms, grabbed the coat he had stuffed in his bag, and went out to the garden.

When he got to the doors, he saw John. He was clad in a striped sweater and black slacks, his back facing Sherlock. His ash blond hair was now golden underneath the glimmer of the moonlight and Sherlock couldn’t stand watching anymore. He cracked the doors open, its hinges squeaking and John slowly turned around. “Good evening, Prince Sherlock.”

“Evening, John.”

“I thought I might see you here.”

Sherlock approached him cautiously, “How?”

John shrugged, “Guess it was more of a wish.”

“What are you doing here? It’s nearly nine."

“I forgot something.”

“Did you find it?”

John smiled at Sherlock, his blue eyes sparkling, “Yeah, I think so.” 


	3. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Molly go on their first date. 
> 
> John and Sherlock have their first proper chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say THANK YOU to everyone reading this story! It really means so much to me!
> 
> edit; askdlhga oh my gosh I cannot believe how many typos there are geezus. I'm so sorry for that! Guess that's what I get for writing at 3 in the morning... I think I've caught all of the errors now!

It was 6:30 at night when Molly Hooper arrived at her friends’ flat for a total makeover before her long-anticipated date with Greg Lestrade. 

Sally Donovan and Sarah Sawyer were flatmates and Molly’s best friends since they were children. An hour later, Molly was ready to go. She borrowed a beautiful sparkling red dress from Sally. Its sleeves cut off just at the bend of her elbows and the length was just above her knees, showing a gracious amount of legs, but leaving any man curious for more. Her skin was absolutely flawless, glowing with the right supply of body shimmer. Her hair flowed down her back and over her shoulders, styled into loose, bouncy curls. Sarah applied her makeup with such skill, it looked professional, and her red lips were surely to be the talk of the people at the restaurant she was about to grace with her presence. Finally, Sarah gave her a pair of simple, sleek black pumps and matching clutch bag.

“Wow!” Sally exclaimed from her bed, “you look gorgeous.”

Molly blushed, ducking her head, which Sarah lifted by the chin, “No, no hiding today! You’re going to show that lucky man exactly what he’s dealing with.”

Molly smiled, “You’re sure it’s not too showy? I don’t want to stand out.”

“What are you talking about?” Sally walked over and stood beside Sarah, “You want to stand out and more, you want to make an impression! You look lovely. Lestrade won’t be able to keep his eyes off of you and if we’re lucky…” Her and Sarah walked their fingers along Molly’s bare shoulders and whispered in unison, “… his hands, too!” They giggled and Molly flushed cherry red, rubbing at her arms awkwardly, but eventually joining her girlfriends in their laughter. They were always very good at lightening any sort of mood and keeping her spirits bright. She thought she was going to barf butterflies and her nerves threatened to get the best of her, but Sally and Sarah were always great moral support.

Then, the doorbell rang.

"Oh, God, he's early," Molly suddenly couldn't feel her limbs. 

“All right, off you go!” Sarah spun her around and pushed her down the stairs.

Sally called to her from the top, “Have fun and don’t forget, if you’re having a shit time, text us the code word and we’ll pick you up!”

Molly nodded, “Post-mortem.”

Sarah whispered to Sally, “Remind me why we picked that one again?”

“We didn’t. Molly did,” Sally responded with a shrug. They both smiled at her and waved goodbye.

Molly gave a small wave of her hand in return. Then she faced the door and took in a deep breath and exhaled, “Okay, Molly. Go get him.” She gave a quick nod of self-encouragement then opened the door slowly.

Before her stood Greg Lestrade himself, looking especially sharp. He always sported a nice collared shirt and suit jacket, but he had visibly put in worlds more effort that night. His clothes were ironed and fitted to perfectly frame his body. He looked leaner and taller and more dashing than ever before. Molly blinked and thanked the heavens that her mouth hadn’t just dropped to the floor.

Lestrade, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. He was literally gaping at her and it took him more than a few seconds to pull his chin back up. Molly really did look stunning. “You’re beautiful.”

Molly’s lips curled into a genuine smile, “Thank you. You look very handsome.” She almost stuttered at the compliment – gosh, it was all so embarrassing (but a good kind of embarrassing). She pointed to Lestrade’s tie (a red that was nearly the same shade as Molly’s dress), “Great choice of colour.”

Lestrade chuckled, “You too.”

They hadn’t planned it, but they had both dressed accordingly. Red, the teller of intense passion, stimulating elevated pulse rates and quick breathing, the colour of love, blood of life, and the heart.

Molly and Lestrade dipped their heads and smiled at each other. Their innocence and willingness to trust each other completely was endearing. Molly swore she heard her flatmates cooing from above.

Lestrade extended a hand, “Shall we get going, then?”

She noticed his hand was trembling slightly and steadied it with her own, “Yes.”

 

 

“Oh, God…" 

Molly and Lestrade stood in front of the world-renowned, high-class Italian restaurant, Angelo’s. Lestrade went white as a sheet and Molly looked nervously from his face to the massive sign at the door of the establishment that read in angry, black letters:

CLOSED ON SUNDAYS

OPEN MON THRU SAT

5PM – 2AM 

Lestrade turned to her and he looked as if he was about to burst into tears. The disappointment and remorse he was feeling spoke more volumes to Molly than any amount of words could. When he opened his mouth to speak, a series of “I’m so sorry” and “Oh God” and “I can’t believe I forgot today was Sunday” was all meshed together and put on eternal repeat, until Molly took his hand and smiled in understanding. “It’s fine. Really.”

Now Lestrade _really_ looked like he was going to cry, “You should be angry with me.”

Molly couldn’t help but giggle at how silly Lestrade looked. He was being so sincere, it was so odd! The worry creasing his face made him look 10 years older.

“Why are you laughing? You’re not supposed to be laughing!”

That tipped her over the edge and her soft giggles turned into a chortle that she tried to hold in, “No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just… ridiculous!”

Lestrade’s expression lightened as he realized that Molly actually wasn’t upset at all. He ran a hand down his face and sighed in relief and before he knew it, joined her good cheer.

Eventually, both of them calmed down. “How could you not be mad?” Lestrade asked, wiping away a single drop of tear that had formed at the corner of Molly’s eye from all of her laughing.

“I don’t know, but I am hungry,” she said with a grin.

Lestrade leaned back on his heels in thought, “How do you feel about Chinese?”

Molly nodded, “You read my mind.”

Lestrade’s smile reached his eyes and he watched Molly with such unrestrained love, she became self-conscious that there was something on her face. Then, in the blink of an eye, he laced his right hand through her left and they began walking to the nearest take-out place. She could feel her ears burning red and found she didn’t mind the sensation so much anymore.

The Chinese restaurant was conveniently located right next to a park. As a last-ditch effort to create a romantic environment, Lestrade had the brilliant idea of eating at a bench in front of the pond. They sat down close enough for their arms to brush against each other, allowing for a comfortable exchange of warmth. Lestrade shrugged off his jacket and slung it over Molly’s shoulders. He handed her a take out box of Chinese with chopsticks and leaned against the back of the bench holding onto his own.

“I really am sorry about tonight. This wasn’t what I had planned. It was much nicer,” Lestrade apologized quietly, poking at his food. He knew Molly had forgiven him – or rather, she believed there was nothing to forgive in the first place – but he couldn’t shake away the frustration. He had such a perfect night planned but it was ruined by his own stupidity and lack of sense to double check the restaurant’s schedule. Then he began thinking what if the restaurant actually was open? He didn’t even make reservations, knowing how in-demand Angelo’s food was.

Molly held onto the warm container and pressed it against her cheek, turning her face to look at Lestrade, “This is nice. I’m here. You’re here. This is nice, it’s really nice.”

God, he loved this girl so much. When it came to wooing a lady, Lestrade was absolute rubbish at showing his feelings. He was stoic and dedicated to his job, always trying his best. His relationships never amounted to anything because Lestrade was incapable of getting across how he felt, always so focused on his career, and the women he tried to pursue could never understand just how much they meant to him. Lestrade told Molly of his so-called “first love” in nursery school, a girl whose name he couldn’t remember and whose face was a blur. Personally, Lestrade didn’t count this as a “love,” considering he was barely out of his toddler phase, but this didn’t change the fact that he and the girl had romantic rendezvous in the back of the playground, making wedding rings out of flowers and pretending dolls were their children.

They were more comfortable now and leaned into one another, done with their meal and enjoying each other’s company and the shimmer of the moon’s reflection in the water.

“That sounds lovely,” Molly commented after he had finished his story.

Lestrade shrugged, “It was better than the other one.” He regretted it slipping out immediately and glanced down at Molly, who fidgeted a little. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Did she not treat you very well?” Molly asked, disregarding his half-apology and staring at the gentle ebb and flow of the pond water.

He didn’t want to talk about her. “Um, it wasn’t really her fault. Not really. It was more mine.”

“Oh.”

“I tried to let her know. How much I liked her. But she ended up leaving me for another bloke.” He squirmed a little in his seat. The topic wasn’t extremely uncomfortable. He was young when they met, still in his teens, and people have told him that it was high time he got over it. However, Lestrade considered her to be his “first love,” not that girl from his primary days and it was hard to forget someone like that.

Molly was very quiet. Naturally, she was curious of Lestrade’s former romantic endeavours, but actually hearing about them made it feel like she had to compete and she wasn’t one for that kind of confrontation. Of course, the fact that Lestrade asked her out in the first place meant that he was interested – interested enough to push aside his former love – but the insecurities still crept up on her and it was hard to brush it off. So, she countered with a story of her own.

“I dated someone. He was my first and only… boyfriend, if you even want to call it that. We weren’t exactly together. We just went on a few dates,” then as an air of finality and to emphasize that she was a strong woman, “I ended it.”

Silence stretched between them. The comfort they had felt in each other’s presence slowly decayed into awkwardness. Lestrade still had his arm around Molly’s shoulders, but he seemed tense. Molly, too, tried to inconspicuously distance herself from Lestrade’s body. But if they continued on like this, they wouldn’t get anywhere. Something had to be done. Lestrade wouldn’t let this one get away; she was too precious, as precious as finding a diamond on a beach of sand.

“I’m not worried about her now. She has her life and I have mine.” He paused to take a breath in, “And you’re here. In my life, I mean. Now.” He cleared his throat. He really was terrible with words.

To his surprise, Molly got his message. Loud and clear. This was one of the many reasons why he loved her. He understood her. Their relationship – or whatever stage they were at right now – wasn’t perfect. They had several miscommunications in the past. Lestrade had actually tried many times to ask Molly out before but his words were too convoluted or Molly was too oblivious of what an amazing person she was to see that Lestrade had fallen (hard) for her.

But now, she knew, or had an idea. Her insecurities were still haunting the back of her mind, but they were being torn down, one by one, by Greg Lestrade. It was amazing, what so little words could do for her confidence. Lestrade’s love for her was enough so that she could begin to love herself. All Molly ever wanted to do was help people and to count for something. To Lestrade, she most definitely counted.

Molly looked up and nodded. They relaxed again and she rested her head against his shoulder as he drew her in closer. They could have fallen asleep, right then and there, if not for the blaring sound of their quickly fluttering hearts, the love they had for each other literally being the wind beneath their wings.

 

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. Because _John._ The wind swept past them and sent a chill down Sherlock’s spine, causing him to shiver.

“Your Majesty should go in.”

“You don’t have to call me that.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Sherlock is fine. Please.”

John nodded, hesitant. “S-Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t be so afraid to say it. I specifically asked you to call me by my name. No one is going to have your head for it, unless they’re prepared to go through me.”

John’s face brightened and he immediately assumed a casual tone, “All right. But you really should go back in. You’ll catch a cold.”

“Come with me. To my room.”

John tilted his head sideways, “Are you asking or ordering?”

“Does it make a difference? You’ll come anyways.”

“An order, then.”

“Problem?”

John smiled and shook his head.

Sherlock turned on his heels, expecting – hoping – that John would follow. The warm glow in his chest burned again when he heard John’s footsteps growing closer behind him. 

In the room, Sherlock and John sat together above the covers on the young prince’s bed.

“Earlier today, in the garden. Did you not tell me your name because you were afraid I would know you were the prince?”

“Afraid wouldn’t be the right word, but I didn’t want you to know I was the prince, no.”

“Why?”

Sherlock leaned back against the headboard and stared at John, “I was planning a daring escape but then I ran into you. If I told you my name, it would have ruined everything.”

“You thought I would turn you in?”

Sherlock shrugged, “That was my suspicion, yes.”

“Oh. Sorry,” John ducked his head and focused on a tiny little pattern of various flowers on Sherlock’s blanket, “but you were wrong,” he finished quietly.

“Yes. Well. That is one way to put it. Glad I was, though.”

John looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes – they were smiling and its odd mix of blues, greys, and greens were mesmerizing.

Sherlock cleared his throat and leaned forward, “So, your sister told me how your father’s business seems to be booming.”

“I’m surprised you two were actually civil enough to talk about that.”

“ _She’s_ the one that’s uncivil,” Sherlock would have believed his words before, but now, he was lying.

“That _is_ my sister you’re talking about.”  

Oh, yes, that’s right. Mycroft had mentioned that they were close. He had to keep his fake-insults to a minimum, just enough to convince and not to rouse suspicion. Sherlock quickly looked away, then met John’s gaze again, “What I meant was, I don’t want to marry her.”

“I don’t think she wants to marry you, either.”

Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive manner, moving back on track, “She also told me about the ball your family is hosting.”

“Yeah, the royal family is invited, but she probably told you that, too,” John seemed to think for a moment, “you are coming, aren’t you?”

“Are you asking me because you want me to go or because you don’t?” Sherlock teased.

“You’re going to be my sister’s husband. I’m not asking you to be my date,” John was young, but he had seen enough movies and seen the process of courting to know there were certain lines that he had to be wary of. He didn’t expect them from Sherlock – a boy and a prince – but he wasn’t one to judge. His tone was almost indifferent, if a little surprised.

Sherlock looked genuinely confused, “Why would I want you to be my date?”

John returned the look, “You weren’t asking?”

“No.”

“Not that I have a problem with it. It’s just that –“

“I know there’s no problem.”

“—you’re my sister’s date.”

“Your sister’s date?”

“It’s only expected. Even if you two hate each other,” John said with a shrug.

“Of course.”

An awkward silence hung over them.

“So… you weren’t asking me.”

Sherlock’s head moved side to side, mechanically, “No. And you weren’t asking me.”

“No.”

“Are you going to ask anyone?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a friend of me and Harriet.”

“You can call her Harry. I know it’s what she prefers so you don’t have to be proper around me.”

John nodded, smiling a little as thanks.

“Who’s the friend?”

“Her name’s Clara.”

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. His hand seemed to shoot out on its own and grab John’s arm, “You can’t ask her.” He realized that there was panic written all over his face and wiped it clean of emotion.

John didn’t notice, but raised an eyebrow, “Why not?”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted from side to side, the gears turning in his head for a good enough reason, “You don’t like her.” Not a very good reason, but it would have to do.

“You don’t know that.”

“You like her?” Sherlock nearly shouted.

“No… not really. But I don’t really have any other choice. Mother and Father are expecting me to bring someone and I’m not close to any girls except Clara and Harry.”

“You can take me.”

John laughed, “You’re not a girl.”

“Your point?”

John sighed, “I already told you, you’re going with Harry. I’m not going to ruin everything our parents have worked for.”

“You don’t want to go with me?” Sherlock found he sounded more defensive than he intended.

“Why are we talking about this again?”

“Because there wasn’t any closure before.”

“It felt pretty closed to me.”

Sherlock saw he still had his hand on John’s shoulder and retracted his arm, sitting back again, “You’re avoiding the question.”

“I’ve only just met you this morning.”

“Again, your point?”

“Never mind.”

“Then it’s a plan.”

John threw his hands up in the air in frustration, “What _plan_?”

“You and me. The ball.” 

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“Not romantically. Just a chance to get to know each other better,” Sherlock clarified.

“But you’re still going to be Harry's date.”

“Certainly. But I’ll be spending my evening with you.”

“Wait.”

“And you will not ask Clara.”

“What?” John looked outraged.

“Something wrong?”

“You get to have a date, but I don’t.”

“Well, it’s only a cover so our parents don’t get up in arms over it. Plus, Harry will need someone to hang out with while we’re together.”

John thought for a moment, then nodded, “Fine. I guess that’s reasonable.”

“Good,” the twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes and the mischief in his grin was reminiscent of what John imagined to be the Cheshire Cat and despite himself, John smiled back. He felt as if he had met someone wonderful.

 

 

The next morning, everyone in the palace rose early to see off the Watsons. Mrs Watson and the queen hugged and Mr Watson gave her a kiss on the cheek goodbye. He and the king shook hands firmly. Harry and Sherlock didn’t touch and didn’t say a word to each other, but the flicker of wickedness exchanged behind their scheming eyes communicated a mutual appreciation. Sherlock and John had bonded the previous night and Sherlock felt as if he knew the young Watson for his entire life. The instant connection they made was novel and invigorating. He wondered if it was the same for John and probably not to his surprise if he found out, it was. When Sherlock leaned in and whispered “See you in one week” in John’s ear and pulled back to flash a smirk, John beamed at him and nodded excitedly. John had gone to the palace, thinking he would be overwhelmed and out of place, but found that he was leaving with the knowledge that whenever he returned, he would have a friend waiting for him. John wanted to shake hands, as well, but the two parted with a curt bow to one another.

With that, the Watsons left and that night, Sherlock got a phone call from Harry. He had given her the direct line to his room just before she left the guest bedroom, so nobody knew they were speaking to one another on good terms.

“You actually asked John out?” Sherlock could _hear_ her smiling.

Sherlock groaned, “Is that what he told you? It was completely platonic.”

“Sure, that’s how relationships always start out.”

“How would you know? You’re only 15.”

“You don’t have to be old to feel, kid!”

“Again with the kid. We’re only two years apart, Harry.”

“Are you expecting me to show you respect because you’re a prince? Because I’m not going to show you any more than you deserve and frankly, you don’t deserve very much. Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m going to treat you like you’re someone special.”

Sherlock smiled. He couldn’t believe how much talking to Harry amused him, “Yes, I know.”

“You’re sure that he’s not asking Clara, though?”

“Quite positive.”

“Thanks for that,” she whispered. Sherlock remembered how vulnerable and fragile she looked when talking to him about Clara. Whatever Harry felt for her, no matter her age or gender, it was real.

“I got John on my own this time around. You’re not pulling your side of the deal,” Sherlock was half serious, half joking.

“I’ll do something for you at the ball, don’t worry about it! Make sure to look extra-handsome so you can impress my brother,” if she could see him, she would have winked.

“Yes, yes, and make sure you dress properly and act like a lady so you don’t frighten Ms Clara away.”

“Shut up! I’m cutting the line!”

“Good night, Harry,” Sherlock said, his tone kind.

Harry, too, was in good spirits, “Night, Your Majesty!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *plan* on updating every Friday so hopefully I'll stay on track...


	4. Falling Into Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock contemplates the meaning of a friend. Mycroft re-visits his first love. And the long-awaited Watson ball takes place.

“Pity the baker’s daughter won’t be at the ball.” 

Mycroft sighed and continued to organize the papers on his desk. Sherlock sat in his chair, swinging his legs and looking around innocently.

“I don’t have time for such trivial matters, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pushed himself off of the chair and walked to Mycroft’s bookshelf, running his pale fingers across the spine of every book, occasionally pulling one out and flipping through its pages. “Are you afraid she’ll reject you?”

“What do _you_ know about these affairs?” Mycroft spat angrily, but his attention was still focused on straightening the corner of a document.

“You should invite her, Mycroft. I’m sure, as a son of the royal family, you have some power to do that,” Sherlock suggested, glancing at his older brother out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course you’d think it’s that simple.”

“Yes, because if I were in your position, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

Mycroft dropped his papers, turned around and leaned against his desk, eyeing Sherlock shrewdly. “I never knew you were capable of such feelings.”

Sherlock shrugged, “I’m not. And I probably never will be. Which is why I know you are. One of us had to inherit our mother’s sentimentality and if not me, then it must be…” He paused and contemplatively drummed his hands along the shelf, “…you.”

“Hardly.”

“Says the man who constantly thinks of a girl, yet makes no move to pursue her.”

“She’s the baker’s daughter, Sherlock!”

“That didn’t stop you from falling in love with her,” Sherlock faced his brother now, his back against the bookshelf and arms crossed in front of his chest.

“I must have fallen quite low to take love advice from you.”

“It’s not advice. It’s logic. If you weren’t so blinded by your affection, you would see it too.”

“You’re telling me to pursue Anthea, yet now you’re telling me my affection for her is the bane of my existence?”

“Every rose has her thorns.”

Silence hung above their heads for a moment. Mycroft took a sharp intake of breath. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

Sherlock only gave a mocking smirk in reply.

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. “I haven’t seen her in years. And Mother wouldn’t approve.”

“Mother can’t say anything now. Not anymore. For one, you are a legal adult. And second, you are no longer going to be king. You have it a little easier now than you did back then. But, just in case you don’t want to tell Mother, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“How come you thought of all of this yet I wasn’t able to?”

“An observer looking in usually knows much more than a participant looking out.”

Mycroft hummed. He took a few steps forward and tousled Sherlock’s wet-from-the-bath hair fondly. Sherlock fussed and slapped his hand away, but smiled. He actually liked it when Mycroft did that; it was one of the rare ways Mycroft physically showed his love for his little brother. “Isn’t it time for you to go see Mrs Hudson? We’re leaving for the Watson estate in a few hours.”

Sherlock nodded, “Do think about what I said, Mycroft.” With that, he dashed out of the office and down the hall.

Mycroft closed the door after him and sat at his desk. Sherlock really had gotten the best of him. Honestly, where did he learn of such things? Sherlock had grown so much in the blink of an eye. They were seven long years apart, yet at times, it seemed as if Sherlock was the older one between the two because he spoke so confidently on complicated and “adult” matters like love. But the fact that he spoke so openly and innocently about it, knowing of its crippling mystery yet unable to fully comprehend it in real life situations, made it obvious that Sherlock was still a child. Mycroft, on the other hand, was not. Still, Sherlock’s mildly patronizing suggestions compelled him to pick up the phone and dial Greg Lestrade’s office.

“Mycroft, sir?”

“I need you to find someone for me.”

“Of course.”

“A young woman named Anthea, the daughter of the baker in the nearest market.”

A few hours until they were expected to leave for the ball. That would be enough time to woo a young lady’s heart, wouldn’t it?

 

 

Sherlock knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door but let himself in before the kind lady answered. 

Mrs Hudson clasped her hands together, “What’ll it be tonight, Sherlock? It’s a very special occasion, after all.”

Sherlock closed the door and walked closer to her. He opened his arms and spun around, slightly bowing at the hip. “I am in your capable hands, Mrs Hudson.”

Mrs Hudson clapped gleefully and skittered across the marble floors to her large wardrobe. “We went all black last time, what do you say to all white for tonight’s ball?”

“Just all white?”

“Oh, you know me better than that, dear! I have two colours in mind as an accent – crimson red or a royal purple?”

“Purple. That one special shirt that I particularly like.”

Mrs Hudson gave another clap, rising to her tip-toes excitedly. “I know exactly the one you’re talking about!” She stuck a hand into the back of her wardrobe and retrieved said shirt. “You do look dashing in this, Sherlock. Best be careful, though. You need to focus on Miss Watson; it won’t do to have all of the other young ladies fawning over you.”

“No need to worry, Mrs Hudson. I’ll be sure to reject their advances properly.”

“I would expect nothing less of you, dear. Now,” she brought the suit and shirt to Sherlock, holding it in front of him, “The purple is a bit unconventional, but you are the prince. No one would dare say anything!"

“Who would dare to question Mrs Hudson’s incredible fashion sensibility?”

Mrs Hudson giggled, “Really, Sherlock, you give me too much credit.”

“I only give credit where credit is due and I have no one to thank but you, Mrs Hudson, for my impeccable clothing.”

She smiled and pecked Sherlock on the cheek. “All right, then try these on and we’ll see if today is another hit or a complete miss!” 

Sherlock nodded and took the clothes. He hid behind the privacy screen, kicked off his trousers, and lifted his shirt up and over his head, tossing it to the side. He slid on the pearl white dress pants then slipped his arms through the purple shirt and through the suit jacket. The cool fabric on his skin felt wonderful and it was a perfect fit. Giving his body a little shake, he revealed himself and Mrs Hudson cheered. “You look so handsome!”

Sherlock stepped forward.

“Twirl for me, dear.”

He did as he was told. Mrs Hudson stopped him by the shoulder when he had his back to her. She straightened out the bottom and patted down his sides, flattening the creases. Then she spun him about-face and lifted the shirt collar. Mrs Hudson pulled out a bow tie from the front pocket of her apron and fastened it around Sherlock’s neck. She lowered the collar back down and gave both sides of the white bow a firm tug, tapping it in place. She reached behind her and presented a pair of milky white dress shoes. Sherlock lifted each foot and slid into them. They clung to his feet with just the right amount of cushion and comfort. He wiggled his toes for fun.

Mrs Hudson stood back and looked Sherlock up and down. “What do you think?” She asked expectedly.

Sherlock turned and faced the mirror. He was very pleased. He looked handsome, indeed, and the darkness of his shirt made his translucent eyes pop and appear more piercing than usual. His ivory skin nearly blended in with his suit, but instead of flushing his colour out, it actually added to the overall ethereal feel. He gave a curt nod in approval.

“I thought so too!” Mrs Hudson laughed. “Your hair is still wet from your bath. You’re just going to let it dry the way it is?”

“No, today I have time to let you do something with it.”

“Excellent!” Mrs Hudson’s spirits seemed to rise tenfold, if that were even possible. She walked to the other side of the room to one of her drawers and pulled out a towel, hair dryer, comb, and hair mousse. She sat in a corner and signalled Sherlock to come over. He jogged a few steps towards her, turned on his heels, and planted himself in front of her. Mrs Hudson began drying his hair gently with a towel.

“Are you excited to see Miss Watson?”

“No. Have you forgotten I absolutely loathe her?” He still had to keep the act up.

“Oh, don’t say such things, Sherlock. You have to give the young lady a chance.”

“Don’t lecture me about my opinion for her, Mrs Hudson. I’ve given her a chance before. It’s her fault for failing my expectations. Not that I had any in the first place.”

“You seem excited to go to the ball, though.”

“How observant of you.”

“But it’s not to see Miss Watson. Oh, I see! Did you make friends with young Mr Watson?”

“John?” Sherlock thought for a moment, “John and I? Friends?”

“Yes.”

“I… don’t know about that.” Were he and John friends? Sherlock never did know how deep a bond had to be to call a stranger or acquaintance a “friend”. How far did they have to go for each other? How much did they need to know about each other? Admittedly, Sherlock could tell enough about John from just the way he moved and talked, but John probably wasn’t intellectually advanced enough to deduce as much from Sherlock. They had only known each other for a day and they were separated for a week before being permitted to see each other again. Was that enough time to develop a friendship?

“I know it’s been difficult, dear, making friends. Maybe it’s time that you started letting yourself open up a little bit more? John seems like a very nice boy.”

Sherlock nodded, “He is.”

“So you think so too? That’s a start, then! You never used to compliment children your age before.”

She was right. Sherlock always thought kids his age – even parents of the kids his age – were all idiots. Most of the world, with the exception of him, his brother, and his parents, were. Even Mrs Hudson, though he admired her as a human being, wasn’t exactly the smartest of the bunch. In everyone else’s defence, however, the Holmes family was exceptionally intelligent; it was what they were known for: their unmatchable wit, their cold exterior, and more often than not, their beauty. Sherlock often thought with amusement that Mycroft got the short end of the stick when it came to his physical appearance, but Mycroft wasn’t exactly ugly. He was quite good-looking, if a little bit round around the waist, but he was average when compared to Sherlock’s striking looks.

Mrs Hudson started up the hair dryer on high and the two were silent while the warm air blew through Sherlock’s dark locks. After a couple minutes, when Sherlock’s hair was no longer dripping, Mrs Hudson re-started the conversation as she styled his hair with the mousse.

“Young Mr Watson could be good for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock remained quiet.

“I know it’s not exactly my place to tell you these kinds of things, but honestly, I worry for you, Sherlock.” She hesitated for a second. Then, “Sometimes you just look so… lonely.”

“That’s enough, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock stood suddenly, his hair sticking up with streaks of white from the hair mousse. “I’ll do the rest myself, thank you,” he said without looking at her. He stalked out of the room, tugging at the sticky substance weaving through his hair, trying to flatten the mess out. He knew it was wrong to walk out on the woman like that. He knew she was always concerned about his well-being, but sometimes, her words cut too close because they were so unbearably true. Oh, she probably had no idea how much her honesty affected him sometimes. Mrs Hudson was so warm and so full of the motherly character his real mother tended to lack. Sherlock both treasured and abhorred this part of Mrs Hudson. She was wonderful yet could be achingly annoying.

He hurried to his room, fixed his hair in the bathroom, and sat on his bed, posture stiff as a board, meditating on that one, stupid, _stupid_ word: friend.

 

 

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mycroft, why are we going to see the baker’s daughter?”

“Not your concern, Greg.”

Mycroft and Lestrade had been good friends since long before Lestrade came to permanently live at the palace as an employee. When they were in each other’s company, they both dropped formalities and assumed a friendly air. Lestrade didn’t call Mycroft “sir” or “Prince Mycroft” and Mycroft simply called him “Greg.”

“Pretty sure you made it my concern when you personally asked me to find her. And you only gave me half an hour. Do you know how hard it was to do that?”

The two of them were walking through the local street market, just outside of the palace. Mycroft was hardly allowed out of the palace grounds as a child, but with age came more freedom. He couldn’t leave any time he pleased, but he could leave once in a while, as long as he took someone from security with him.

“And you’re sure she still lives here?”

Lestrade sighed at how unappreciative Mycroft was. Really, he sounded so urgent in the phone call, Lestrade couldn’t help but have every single one of his men researching this “Anthea” girl. Didn’t even give a last name! Luckily, the name was unique and only one came up on the registry within 20 miles outside of the palace walls, but still, the request was ridiculous. “Yeah, hasn’t moved an inch since her birth. Though the report said she was supposed to be off for university in a few months.”

“Which one?”

“Now that’s really asking too much. You didn’t give us enough time to go into details.”

Mycroft glanced at him, eyes flickering slightly as the beginnings of an apology. “Of course.” His attention focused back in front of him. The market was as lively as he remembered it. There were changes in some of the store names, but that was only expected. Nearly a decade had passed since he last walked through the streets. Children ran in front of them and store owners tended to their customers happily, partaking in casual conversation, asking how the kids were, how business was, all of the things ordinary people were so good at doing. Mycroft envied them sometimes, how banal their lives were. All they had to do was worry about themselves, but Mycroft, well, Mycroft had to worry about everyone else and then worry about himself last. Though, not anymore. Now, that was Sherlock’s duty – or it would be his duty once he hit adulthood. Mycroft grimaced at the thought, a pang of guilt wrenching his heart. Lestrade noticed, “You all right?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded slowly. Then, the familiar scent of baked goods sent his head spinning. Oh, God. They were close. The next corner, they were there. The bakery was exactly where Mycroft had left it. The memories came flooding back to him again as he recalled the little flower shop to the bakery’s right and the fruit cart to its left.

Suddenly, Mycroft saw her. A blur of black hair that glistened in the fading sunlight, landing just above the girl’s shoulders and bouncing up and down in the wind as she ran into the bakery. Mycroft’s hand shot out and grabbed Lestrade’s arm, shaking him vigorously. Shocked, Lestrade blurted out, “What? What is it?”

“It’s her,” Mycroft whispered, eyes wide and heart thumping as he saw the figure of his first love disappear behind the bakery’s door.

“What?” Lestrade leaned in, trying to hear what had driven Mycroft so insane.

“It’s _Anthea_ ,” Mycroft hissed back, his eyes still locked onto the bakery’s front door.

“Oh… _Oh!_ ” Lestrade finally got the message. This was why his friend had been so pressing in finding the girl. Mycroft was interested in her – no, not just interested. Lestrade knew the elder prince wouldn’t be so wound up about a girl he was simply interested in. He was in love with her and Lestrade knew very well what that felt like. “Well, go on then!” He gave a harsh pat to Mycroft’s back.

Mycroft looked at Lestrade, bewildered, his expression clearly saying “Are you crazy?”

“You came all the way here, just for her. And you made my men and I do all that work so we could find her to realize that she hadn’t moved at all. You can explain later. I’ll wait right here.”

Mycroft let go of Lestrade’s arm and stood tall, straightening out his jacket and smoothing back his hair.

Lestrade chuckled, “You look good, mate.”

Mycroft gave a small smile of gratitude and awkwardly walked up to the bakery. He took in a deep breath before knocking – why was he knocking? This was a public establishment! He pushed right through the door and felt like his lungs had shrivelled upon seeing his childhood love – his current love, his love, whatever! – sitting right there. She was behind the register, an open book on her lap and Blackberry in her hands, texting away. Mycroft approached the counter. When she didn’t look up after about a minute, he cleared his throat.

She lifted her eyes to him – a perfect crystal clear shade of blue – and spoke, her voice sultry like dripping golden honey, “Can I help you?”

“Do you remember me?” Great way to start the conversation. God! 

Anthea now lowered her phone and tilted her head, smiling mysteriously. “Give me a clue.”

Okay, so she hadn’t thought he was completely mental. She was going along with this. Mycroft swallowed, “We met when we were younger.”

“I’ve met a lot of people,” she gestured around, “My family does run a bakery.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, “Of course. Then I’ll be more specific. We met about 10 years ago. I told you my name was Jack,” he had given an alias, using the name of the boy from the nursery rhyme, because his mother had told him people would do terrible things if they knew he was royalty. Now, he knew that was just her paranoia talking. “And we pretended we were pirates. We used the bread as swords and the cakes as treasure.

A sense of familiarity seemed to burn behind her eyes and her face came alive. “Hello, Captain Jack.”

Mycroft smiled with relief. She had remembered him. “Hello, Anthea.”

Anthea set her phone down on the counter and leaned forward on her elbows, resting her head in her hands. “What brings you here today, Jack?”

That name was going to annoy him. He needed to fix that. “Actually, my name isn’t Jack.”

“I know.”

Mycroft looked at her with surprise, “You know?”

“Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after.”

Mycroft laughed. After all those years, he had half-expected Anthea to become dull, but it seemed her cleverness had only grown since then. “How?”

Anthea shrugged, “So then, what is your name, _Jack_?”

“It’s Mycroft.” He expected her to be shocked at the great reveal. Everyone knew the princes’ names, but no one outside of the palace and people who had visited knew what they looked like.  Security took extra precaution to make it that way.

But Mycroft should have known better than getting such a typical response from someone so extraordinary as Anthea. Without acknowledging his royal blood, she continued the conversation, but something told Mycroft that she realized he was a prince a long time ago. She held out her hand and Mycroft took it, praying that his palms weren’t clammy (which they weren’t, thank goodness). “Nice to see you again, Mycroft.”

“Yes, the feeling is mutual.” Their hands parted but her touch lingered on his skin, searing the warmth into his memory.

“Are you here to present me with my Cinderella moment?”

“I came to ask you something.”

Anthea watched, silent, a smile playing on her lips.

Okay, there wasn’t any use in beating around the bush. Mycroft dove right to it. “There is a ball tonight at an estate of a family friend. I was wondering if you would do me the honour of being my date for the evening.”

“Yes.”

His ears seemed to have closed in on themselves. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he heard that right. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”

Anthea giggled. She took Mycroft’s wrist and with her finger, wrote on his palm, Y. E. S. She released her hold and Mycroft put his hands behinds his back, rubbing them together and grinning wildly, unabashed and not giving a shit about formalities. He wanted to relish in this boyish feeling of having something as idealistic as a first love becoming reality. “Yes… yes. All right. I will personally get you at 7 o’clock, sharp.”

“What should I wear?”

“Anything. Anything is fine.”

“All right. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

“Goodbye, Anthea.” Mycroft ducked his head as a parting gesture and left.

Lestrade was waiting for him right where Mycroft left him. If Mycroft were slightly less solemn in character, he would have skipped all the way to his friend. His heart was soaring and his whole being was singing hymns of joy, but his face was done indulging in his happiness and said that he was on his way to a funeral. Lestrade knew how to see through that façade though and flashed a triumphant grin on his friend’s behalf. “So she said yes?”

Mycroft nodded and smiled shyly.

Lestrade slung an arm over the prince’s shoulder and laughed heartily. “Good for you, mate! Now, fess up. How’d you meet her?”

 

 

The royal family had finally arrived to the Watson estate. Besides the king, queen, and the princes, Lestrade and his very best men, and Mrs Hudson were invited. Each of them was allowed one guest. Naturally, Lestrade brought Molly. Mrs Hudson came by herself. The Watsons announced that the ball would be transformed into a masquerade and they mailed out complimentary masks to all the invited families as apologies for the last-minute change. Everyone strapped their masks on.

The Watson estate was magnificent. Not as expansive as the palace, of course, but definitely a sight to behold. It was built right beside a lake. The white bricks were old and weatherworn, but gave the structure a very welcoming presence. A red carpet led to the main entrance and it twisted this way and that, leading to the ballroom. Inside, everything was golden, lit up by a series of chandeliers lining the ceiling. The warm glow of candles along the crown moulding of the dance floor was beautiful and inviting. Many families were already settled there, children dancing, women and men floating across the room elegantly. Some were in the main lobby, talking, eating, drinking, as men in black tuxedos wove through them, holding platters of refreshments. They all had masks on.

When the royal family stepped through the front doors, the guests immediately stopped what they were doing and faced them. They took off their masks and bowed reverently. The king and queen were first and bowed. Mycroft and his mysterious date were next. Then came Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, followed by Lestrade and Molly and the rest of security. Everyone applauded and went back to their business, assuming their masks once more. The Watsons were in a corner, chatting up an important business partner. At the sight of the king and queen, they excused themselves and went to greet them.

“Your Majesty,” Mrs Watson curtsied, which the queen reciprocated.

“You’ve done a marvellous job in decorating for the occasion,” Queen Violet complimented.

Harry stepped out from behind her mother’s grand dress and eyed Sherlock, jerking her head and signalling him to follow her. Sherlock nodded and stealthily moved around the adults, but Mycroft’s firm grip on his shoulder stopped him. Their parents were too distracted to notice their little side-conversation.

“Where do you think you’re going, Sherlock?” Mycroft whispered as he bent his knees to get as close to eye-level with Sherlock as he could.

“Going to enjoy myself, Mycroft. You should do the same.” He looked up at the lady standing beside Mycroft. “My dear brother has told me so much about you. A pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Anthea.” Sherlock smirked and broke free from Mycroft, whose hold was loosened by the comment. His older brother was gaping at him, then immediately regained his composure as he apologized to a very amused Anthea.

Sherlock bolted towards Harry, who took his hand in her own and ran into the ballroom. More people had filled in now and though there was enough room to move around freely, it was still crowded. The number of guests cloaked their secret mission perfectly. The two stopped for a few breaths.

“How did you like the masquerade idea?” Harry asked.

“I knew it was your doing!” Sherlock replied, beaming. It really was crafty of her, to think of wearing masks. That way, no one would really know who was hanging out with whom. “You’ve also indirectly helped Mycroft.”

“Always glad to be of service! Told you I would do something for you. You remember the plan?”

“We dance, we fight, and then we part.”

“Simple and clean, I do like the way you think.”

“Where are John and Clara?”

“Clara is waiting for me in the back entrance. John should be in his room. Up the spiral staircase, make a right, and it’s the second door on the left.”  

Sherlock nodded.

“All right. Look mean and lift your mask, I see our parents. They haven’t spotted us yet, so let’s start dancing.” She took Sherlock’s hand again and placed his free hand on her waist, resting her other hand on his shoulder. They twirled across the floor together, purposefully closer to their parents.

The first time they passed their parents’ watchful eyes, they were cordial to each other. The second time, they were the same. Sherlock was beginning to think Harry forgot their plan. He was about to say something the third time, until a strangled cry escaped his lips instead as Harry ruthlessly stomped on his foot. The Watsons looked on in horror because they saw her action was no accident. Sherlock pushed himself away from her. He knew it was all part of the plan, but God, did he want to punch her in the face and knock all of her teeth out. That hurt like _hell_. The shock of the pain was too much for him to do anything for a moment. Sherlock saw Harry stick her tongue out as a half-hearted apology, winking at him; silently saying “I had to make it believable!” All right, then. Sherlock could do just as bad. With his left foot (the one that wasn’t brutally damaged by Harry), he kicked Harry’s right shin. The target wasn’t really fair for Sherlock, since the plump padding of the ruffles on her dress acted as a shield, but it did cause her some pain. She howled (a little too loudly) and hopped up and down on her left foot. Everyone in the ballroom turned to look at the row. Some people in the main lobby heard her and stuck their heads through the open entrance to see what the noise was about. That seemed to be the final straw for their parents.

“Enough!” The king roared. That single order silenced the entire room. Even the music had stopped. “Sherlock, I want you out of this room this instant and think about your actions."

“But Father, it wasn’t me who started it. It was –“

“I don’t care! You will apologize to Miss Watson and leave. A man never hits a lady, no matter the circumstances. Do you understand me?”

Sherlock looked up, meeting his father’s gaze with fury. His father’s health was failing. He was in good shape that night, but Sherlock didn’t want to cause him any further problems. He faced Harry and glared at her. “I am sorry,” he said through clenched teeth.

Mr Watson stood beside Harry and put a hand on her shoulder. “You, too, Harriet. We saw what you did to the young prince. Apologize. Now.”

“I am sorry. Your Majesty,” she sneered at him. Oh, she really was good.

Mr and Mrs Watson were completely baffled by her tone of voice, but the queen raised a hand, pardoning them with an understanding smile.

Sherlock stuck his nose in the air, shoved his mask back down, turned on his heels, and stormed out of the room with a slight limp. Mission accomplished.

Sherlock pushed past the crowd for the spiral staircase Harry had told him of. There were some people who had visited the palace before and recognized him (even with the mask on). He smiled politely at them, slowing down slightly to bow, and then continued to sprint. He finally reached the bottom of the stairs and climbed up them in haste, almost tripping and falling backwards one too many times. He got to the top, made a right, skidded past John’s door, took a few steps back and came to a stop. Sherlock fixed his scrunched up suit and took a second to catch his breath. Then, he knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately and there stood John Watson, dressed in a black suit that was very similar to the one Sherlock wore the day they first met. He smiled widely and did Sherlock the favour of taking his mask off for him, “Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock found himself grinning back, “Hello, John.”

John stood to the side and made way for Sherlock to walk through. Then he shut the door behind him. His room was spacious but plain. Its walls were painted white. There was a single bed pressed up against the wall, with a small wooden desk on the other side, and a faux fur rug in between. The back wall was decorated with a row of windows, facing a spectacular view of the twinkling lake.

“Yeah, I know, it’s not much.”

“It’s a little empty, to be sure.”

“It’s enough for me,” John said lightly. He didn’t take any offense. His room was very simple, having just the necessities. To him, even that rug was out of place, but Harry insisted so he kept it.

“You don’t use your lights?”

“Oh, well there are a lot of windows so I usually don’t turn them on.”

John was right about that. The moonlight streaming in from the five windows on the wall was more than enough. Sherlock could see every little detail clearly, despite the lack of artificial light.

“I was talking to Mrs Hudson today while I was getting ready,” when he saw the unsure tilt of John’s head, Sherlock explained, “The head maid. She said that… you would be good for me.”

“Sorry?” John looked puzzled.

“That you would be a good friend.”

“Would be? You mean we’re not friends now?” There was a mixture of disappointment and sadness in John's voice.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be confused. “Are we?”

John shuffled his feet nervously and glanced around, “Um… yes. I thought we were. I mean. Yes. You _are_ my friend. ”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly. He nodded, “Yes. Okay. Good.” He cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to say something but a knock at the door interrupted him. Without even waiting for a response, Harry burst through the door, dragging in a girl of the same age behind her by the hand. “Hello, boys!” She exclaimed. The girl behind her smiled uncomfortably and waved a little in greeting.

“Ah, you must be Miss Clara,” Sherlock crossed the room and stood beside John, sticking out a hand. They shook hands.

“Prince Sherlock, then?” Clara eyed Harry for a confirmation, to which Harry nodded enthusiastically, “But he prefers to be called Sherlock, don’t you, Your Majesty?”

“Not always, but in this case, yes, you may call me by my name.”

“Okay,” then Clara looked to John, “Hello, Master John.”

“And you know that my little brother prefers to be called John! Just plain old Johnny boy.” Harry affectionately ruffled the top of John’s head. John grimaced and then shrugged, smiling warmly at Clara, “She’s right. I’ve told you many times.”

“Right, sorry.” Clara nodded, taking the note for about the hundredth time.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked Harry.

“It’s so boring downstairs, we wanted to hang out with our own kind.”

“Speaking of downstairs, that little stunt you pulled there was barbaric, to say the least.”

“No time for arguing, kid! It’s time to dance the night away!” Harry took Sherlock’s and clasped it together with John’s. Then she took his free hand in her own and took Clara’s hand in the other. “John, hold Clara’s hand!” John did as he was told and they formed a ring together. “Now, hush.” They stood completely still and even with the door closed, the faint melody coming from the ballroom seeped in through the walls. Harry started the movements off, falling back and stepping side to side rhythmically. She tugged on Clara and Sherlock’s hands, urging them to follow her example. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but complied, tugging John with him. Eventually, they all fell into the same beat. As the speed of the music picked up, they broke up into couples. Harry danced with Clara, intimately connected to one another; Harry’s hands on Clara’s hips and Clara’s arms wound loosely around Harry’s neck, their eyes closed and foreheads bumping gently together. Sherlock and John danced a little farther apart, but still dangerously close. Their chests were nearly touching; Sherlock’s right hand was linked with John’s left. The prince’s left hand was placed carefully above the young Watson’s waist and John had his right hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I thought you weren’t asking me out,” John whispered.

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock replied.

“Then what’s this?” To his surprise, John didn’t sound at all upset. In fact, he sounded entertained.

Sherlock thought for a moment, then smirked, “I never said I wouldn’t ask you to dance.”

“You _didn’t_ ask me,” John countered.

“I didn’t have to. It just happened. And aren’t you glad that it did?”

The music drowned out their conversation so they danced again in silence. When it died down a bit, John took the opportunity to respond with a slow nod of his head and a quiet “Yes,” barely audible above the soothing melodies. Sherlock looked down and was about to ask John to repeat his answer, but didn’t have to. He saw that John’s ears had turned bright red and that alone was worth a thousand words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we'll take an 8 year time jump so the children will be adults and the adults will have gotten a little older...


	5. Coming to Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Harry have a heart-to-heart.
> 
> Sherlock and John have a heart-to-heart.

Eight years passed. Thinking about it about it, for everyone at the palace, those eight years passed in the blink of an eye. But when they _really_ thought about it, it was a very long time. King Siger passed away two years prior on Christmas Eve. Sherlock never had much attachment towards the holiday but now he had come to hate it. The late king was stern but kind and though both Holmes brothers did not outwardly show it, their father's death was devastating. Still, Sherlock did not mourn and he did not cry. ("Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft had told him.) He rose to the fate thrust upon him when he was a mere boy of 13 and became ruler of his nation when he turned 19. He was everything everyone expected of him and more, strong, determined, and cold.

**********

“Harry.” Sherlock’s expression was grave, eyebrows knitted together in worry. Harry stood in front of him, her golden locks turned brown by the rain. She tucked a clumped strand behind her ear (a habit when she was uneasy) and rubbed at her arms. She gave Sherlock a small smile and shrugged. Harry snuck into the palace through the back garden. She was now 23 years old, a fully developed woman, and a beautiful one at that. Her curly blond hair, which was always cut right to her jawline as a child, grew out and hung like curtains across her back. Her bright blue eyes were crystal clear on a good day, but today wasn’t a good day at all. Today, her eyes were foggy and sad, red and puffy with too many tears. The rain helped to mask her sorrow, but to Sherlock, it only made her look more miserable.

Harry said nothing, so Sherlock did the only thing he knew how to do. He rested a hand – strangely warm for his frigid character – on her shoulder and squeezed firmly. Hugging would have been more natural, but Sherlock didn’t hug. Harry, however, did, and she turned around and wrapped her arms around his waist, tightening her hold with every passing second. Sherlock’s arms hung awkwardly in the air and he was about to open his mouth to protest, until Harry silenced him by drilling her head into his chest.

“Sshh! Don’t say anything. I know you don’t like this kind of sappy touching, but just for a little while, shut up.” A wet blob of tears and water seeped through the thin fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, but he didn’t push her away. He didn’t move a muscle. He waited with impressive patience until Harry’s shoulders stopped shaking from the cold and her heartache.

 

“You are more than welcome to stay here until the situation calms down back at your home.” Sherlock poured a hot cup of warm milk back in his room and handed it to Harry. It was her favourite to have on rainy days. She had often secretly run away to him when they were children and she had no one else to talk to. Sherlock was hardly someone to go to when looking for sympathy, but he was an excellent listener. Nobody knew of her nightly rendezvous with the young king except John and Clara’s father, who drove her all the way to the palace even at the oddest hours. Harry took the mug and brought her face to it, letting the hot steam warm her icy cheeks.

She was sitting on Sherlock’s bed, knees drawn in and wearing a nightgown Sherlock stole long ago from Mrs Hudson’s wardrobe as an experiment to see if she would ever notice. She still hadn’t.

“Thanks. Sorry.” She took a sip of the milk. The liquid felt amazing as it trickled down her throat. Its warmth pooled throughout her body.  

Sherlock sat at the edge of the bed, his long legs stretched out across the carpet. “So? What happened?” Sherlock knew, but he asked anyways. He had learned that people always felt better after talking.

“Well, you’re 21 now. Soon, we’ll have to get married. That was the deal between our parents, you remember. God, I can’t believe after all we did as kids to get them to drop the subject, they kept on pushing.” Harry ran a hand through her still-damp hair in frustration.

Sherlock nodded, staring at the floor. “Yes. Mother said she would let me choose my own bride if I didn’t like you. How naïve of me to ever believe she would keep her word, when our families are so closely linked. A marriage between us would be advantageous.”

“But you _do_ like me.”

Sherlock smiled.

Harry did, too, and then resumed a contemplative expression. “I thought maybe, if I told them how I felt about Clara, they would finally let it go. So I did. I told them I loved her, but I didn’t tell them she loved me back. I wasn’t going to be that stupid. My mom looked like… I don’t know, she looked like she just saw a cat getting run over by a truck. My dad looked like he was going to kill the man who ran over that cat.” She laughed, bitterly, but the disappointment was evident in her eyes that threatened to spill over with tears again. Harry wasn’t just bitter. She was crushed.

“But they didn’t kick you out.”

Harry shook her head and huffed. “No, they would never do that. But I think it would have been better if they were blatantly angry with me, you know? But it wasn’t like that. You didn’t see their faces, Sherlock. They looked like they were in so much pain and I just…” Her face contorted at the memory and she squeezed her eyes shut. She took another drink of her milk.

“You really believed they were going to accept you so readily.”

“John did,” she replied quietly.

Sherlock sighed. “John is _different_.”

“Yeah, that’s true. John can accept anything. If I told him I was a time traveller from some distant planet, his reaction would probably be asking me to see space together.” The thought of her brother’s exceptional capacity for all that was considered “abnormal” in this world brought the smallest flicker of pride and joy to her eyes.

“I’m going to assume that they’ll hurry to get the wedding planned sooner after your… confession.”

Harry groaned, dropping her head. “I am so sorry, Sherlock.”

He looked at her now. “Sorry to me? I’m not the one who’s going to lose in this game, Harry. You are.”

She rolled her eyes, “You’re still saying that bullshit to me? Eight years, Sherlock. Eight! I see the way you look at John. And I see the way he looks at you. If that’s not lo—.” She stopped herself. Harry knew how much Sherlock hated her saying the “l-word” when John was concerned.

“Love,” he began, his loathing for the word evident when his icy eyes met hers as Harry lifted her head again, “is not something I am capable of.”

That made Harry’s heart wrench. She knew. She saw. She may not have been as observant and clever as Sherlock – quite frankly, no one was – but she wasn’t an idiot. Sherlock always said he needed to distance himself, keep away from his emotions, but whenever John was involved, his body and his heart betrayed him. Oh, it was so _obvious_. And Harry knew why Sherlock didn’t act on his feelings but it infuriated her so much, to see him this way, so adamant on denying himself the satisfaction of being truly happy for once in his life because of his social status as king and heart of the nation.  

“You’re a liar, my dear prince.” Harry whispered.

“It’s king, now.” Sherlock stood and took the milk from Harry’s hands. “Go to sleep. You’re starting to babble nonsense.”

“How do you expect to lead a country with confidence when you can’t even face your feelings head on?” Her emotions were getting the best of her.

Sherlock turned the lights off and she couldn’t see his face, but there it was again. The faltering façade, the slight quiver in his voice as he commanded her in hushed tones. “Shut up.”

Harry bit her lip and sent him the nastiest look she could muster. Sherlock couldn’t see her, either, in the black darkness, but he didn’t need to see her to know. He could _feel_ the heat of her furious gaze. He took a seat at his desk and opened his laptop screen, researching types of tobacco ash to get his mind away from thinking about John. His John. His amazing, fantastic John Watson.

No. _Stop._

He dared a glance at Harry when he finally heard the sheets moving as they enveloped her. The faint light from his screen illuminated her sleeping face, peaceful despite the burden of her now exposed secret.

Sherlock turned back to his laptop and closed it. No amount of reading could distract him. He spent the rest of the night wide-awake, staring into the darkness.

 

The next morning, Sherlock got a phone call from John. Harry was still sound asleep, drooling all over his pillows.

“You know I prefer to text.”

“Harry’s with you, isn’t she?” John asked, disregarding Sherlock’s comment.

“Yes.” Sherlock strode over to the bed, lifted Harry’s head, placed a towel under it to soak up her dripping saliva, and gently laid it back down.  

“Well, I guess I can rest easy, then. Since she’s with you.”

Sherlock remained silent, but a smile played on his lips.

“Is she okay?”

“Rejected by her parents and running away from home? I can hardly say she’s in good condition, but she’s well enough to find sleep. You don’t need to worry.”

John sighed. “Right. I’m in the garden, by the way. Open the back door.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You’re here?”

“Yeah. I asked Clara’s dad to drive me here. Now, come on, before Greg finds me.”

Sherlock hung up and made for the garden. John waved at him from the other side of the glass doors. His presence alone was enough to brighten Sherlock’s countenance, but it was strange and bothering; as the years went by, while Sherlock felt happy to see John, he also felt something else that he couldn’t quite place his finger on, like an uncomfortable nagging in his chest.

Sherlock opened the door and the two walked back to the room, quiet and simply enjoying each other’s company. Harry was still sleeping and Sherlock had to change the towel under her head.

They took a seat on the floor next to the door, leaning against the wall.

“You knew about Harry.” John began.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“How long do you think?”

“Well, knowing you, you probably figured it out the first day I met you.”

Sherlock chuckled. “You’re right about the first day, but I wasn’t able to figure it out. She told me. I was surprised.”

“Surprised? You?” John let his head fall back as he looked at Sherlock, his tone playful.

“Pleasantly.”

“Thanks. It would have been hard on her if she was alone in this.”

“She has you. The good old doctor always by her side.”

“Not a doctor yet. And I’m her brother. It’s different. I’m supposed to support her, no matter what.”

“Except the drinking.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s a little harder to deal with.”

“You are extraordinary.”

He spoke in a hurried whisper, as if he was talking to himself. The comment slipped out before Sherlock even realized he had meant to think it, not say it. He quickly glanced away, feeling John’s eyes on him.

“That’s new.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“Suddenly feeling nice?” John pried, grinning.

Sherlock whipped his head around and found John’s eyes. “John."

Now, he was suddenly feeling serious. All right. John played along. “What?”

“Even if someone wasn’t your sister, would you accept them?”

“What?” John blinked, taken aback.

Sherlock seemed to struggle with his words, trying to be as delicate as possible while being as clear as possible. “If… if someone, say, a friend—a very good friend –had developed feelings for someone of the same sex, could you still look at them the same way?”

“What are you going on about?”

“Answer the question.” Sherlock’s hand shot out and grabbed John’s shoulder, shaking him firmly.

“Well, if you would stop doing that,” John twisted Sherlock’s wrist away and tossed his arm aside, “maybe I will.”

Sherlock brought his arm back and held it to his chest, quiet as a mouse. He nodded his head eagerly, waiting impatiently.

“Yeah, I think I would.”

“Really?” Sherlock scanned John’s face, eyes narrowed in concentration.

“It’s not up to someone to decide who they love. Not really. They don’t wake up one day and think ‘I’m going to like that girl or boy over there.’ It just sort of happens. And if someone falls in love with someone else of the same gender, then that’s that. It’s complicated, of course it is, but if you really think about it, it really isn’t very complicated at all. You know what I mean?”

Like he said, _extraordinary_.

Sherlock looked away and rested his head against the wall, legs extended before him in all of their gangly glory and hands laced together on his lap. He stared into the black space that was the underside of his bed.

“You going to tell me the details or are you going to be all mysterious and cool about it?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, lost in his thoughts.

John pondered on the question. It wasn’t exactly random, but the urgency and desperation with which Sherlock asked it was odd behaviour for his otherwise calm and collected friend. Was he talking about anyone specific? If so, who? John went through all of the people both of them knew well enough to warrant any sort of affection and interest.

Mrs Hudson? No, she had had a husband before. That didn’t exactly rule out all of the possibilities, but no, not her. 

Molly and Lestrade were definitely out. They had been going strong for the past eight years. All who saw them envied their relationship yet at the same time, the love they had for each other was so apparent and unconditional, everyone prayed daily for their happiness. Rumours of marriage had surfaced within the recent years but it seemed that both of them were perfectly content with where they were.

Mycroft, too, wasn’t the “friend.” If anything, he became Sherlock’s greatest “enemy” as they grew older, always meddling in his affairs. Everyone suspected him to be dating a woman but no one knew exactly who it was. Well, no one but those closest to him, including Sherlock and Lestrade and by default, John and Molly. Mummy constantly hounded her oldest son with questions – “Is it true? You’ve found a lady? Who is it? Do I know her?” – but over the years, both of the Holmes brothers had learned to disregard her inquisitions with a dismissive wave of their hands or the age old excuse – “I’m busy” – which always seemed to work. They weren’t exactly lying, after all.

Besides, while Sherlock did care for all of them, he wasn't the type to become emotionally invested in their romance.

But then who –

Oh.

_Oh._

John knew this trick. Telling a story about your “friend” but in reality talking about yourself. He knew this trick very well. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at John out of the corner of his eye.

“You… do you like someone?”

No response.

“A guy?”

No change in his expression.

“Who is it?” John asked in a neutral tone.

A slight flicker of the eyes.

“All right. So you don’t want to talk about it, then?”

The corners of his lips turned down into a frown and the creases on his forehead deepened as his mind and heart fought against one another. “No. I do.”

“I’m all ears.”

Sherlock hesitated. “How do you know, John? If you are…”

“…in love?”

Sherlock nodded.

“It’s different for everyone.”

“What does it feel like for you?” Sherlock turned his entire body and faced John, legs crossed and hands folded under his chin. His eyes were dark and sombre. John scooted forward and mimicked Sherlock’s position. Their knees brushed together and neither felt like moving away.

“Well. Er. I guess it starts physically. My body seems to know before anything else. Before I know it, I’ll start moving closer to the person as I’m talking to them, place my hand on their hand or shoulder; I’ll start wanting to hold them, those kinds of things. Then, one day, it just hits me, sort of like that one time we played catch in the garden as kids. We’d been playing for a while but I still didn’t see the ball coming and it hit me right in the head, knocking me over. That’s sort of what love does. It knocks you down. And if the other person loves you back, they pick you up and you… walk together. For as long as the relationship lasts. It could be for a few days, a few weeks, months, years, or forever.” 

Sherlock was staring at John, his eyes slightly wide, soaking up all of this new information and storing it somewhere in his mind palace. “So you’ve been in love before?”

John laughed. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“Are you in love now?”

The question stunned John into silence.

But why? No, he wasn’t. Was he? If he was, who was he in love with?

“John?"

Sherlock was leaning closer now, so close their noses were almost touching. No respect for personal space. He never had any but that never bothered John. His eyes were now a radiant golden brown that dispersed out into a mesmerizing swirl of blues and greens. All John saw was Sherlock and all Sherlock saw was John.

John realized he wasn’t breathing. He was holding his breath. His head was swimming and his heart was pounding in his ears. He knew this feeling. It was that feeling he dreaded yet relished in all at the same time. It was dangerous waters where he could drown at any moment but the thrill made him feel alive. It was the same feeling he had (effortlessly and unknowingly) drawn out of Sherlock.

It was love.

No, not yet. Wait. _Yet_? No, not at all. It just couldn’t be.

“Sorry, sorry.” John breathed out and shook his head.

Sherlock’s features scrunched together in worry. He rested a hand on John’s shoulder. _Shit._

“I’m fine. Really.” He managed a weak smile but as usual, it wasn’t enough to convince Sherlock and as usual, it wasn’t enough to stop Sherlock’s string of questions.

“So then you are in love?”

“No!” John nearly shouted and answered far too quickly. _Shit shit shit._

Sherlock rose his eyebrows in suspicion. “Who is it?”

“No, Sherlock.”

“You’re lying.”

“What, so you can’t tell me but I have to tell you?”

Their voices were rising.

“This is for my personal knowledge. Me telling you would be for gossip.”

“Gossip? You think I would actually tell people if you didn’t want others to know?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, right, sure, of course. It’s never what you meant.”

“Why are you getting so upset about this?”

“I’m not upset!” John threw his hands in the air.

“You’re shouting!”

John clamped his mouth shut and took a deep breath. Then he brought his voice down to a low hiss. “So are you.”

Sherlock did the same. “No, I am not. Now, tell me.”

“You tell me first.”

“ _I’ll_ tell you.”

Sherlock and John whirled around, startled by the third voice, and saw Harry crouching down right beside them.

“You sure are invested in your conversation. I’ve been sitting here for more than a minute without either of you noticing.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Harry.” Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

“He’s my brother. So naturally, I’m concerned.” Harry replied coolly.

“I’m perfectly capable of handling my own relationships, thanks.” John looked away and sulked, head resting in his hand.

“This relationship doesn’t just involve you.”

“I’ve made sure to keep you away from all of my female friends. You don’t know any of them.”

“Who said anything about female friends?”

“That’s enough!” Sherlock bellowed and shot up onto his feet, dragging Harry up with him by the arm. John snapped out of his gloom and looked at the pair in shock as they abruptly left the room.

Outside, Sherlock shoved Harry in front of him and pushed her into walking.

“You need to tell him.” Harry said when Sherlock had calmed down and allowed her to walk of her own accord.

“Quiet.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not one of your servants, _Your Majesty_.” She sneered.

Sherlock seized Harry by the shoulder and twisted her around.

“That. Hurts.” She glared at him.

“It is not your place to tell John _anything._ ”  

“Tell him _what_ , exactly?” Harry challenged.

Sherlock’s lips sealed together in a thin line. His eyes shifted sideways and his expression fell. The hand squeezing Harry’s shoulder slipped and dropped back to his side.

“You know I can’t tell him. You know perfectly well why but still, you taunt me. Do you know how that makes me feel?” The control in his voice wavered and his eyes met Harry’s again, its vibrancy lost and weary.

“If you don’t try, you’ll never know.” Harry brought her hands to both sides of Sherlock’s face and pressed her forehead against his, her eyelids fluttering shut. “I’m sorry. We will get through this. We will.”

Sherlock nodded but didn’t believe her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the belated update. I've already broken my schedule to have a new chapter up every Friday eep. Midterms were spread out between the past couple of weeks and it was pretty hectic. But things have calmed down, so hopefully I can get my groove going again. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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